


The Moon Goes Out

by TrashPandatron8000



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Based in game plot, But new stuff happens, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Historical References, I enjoy porn too but this is different, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Light Detective Work, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Mystery, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Bigotry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Spying, because f that s, my apologies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 102,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashPandatron8000/pseuds/TrashPandatron8000
Summary: Esther Dobranoc is the heiress to Angelo Bronte’s criminal empire, an adopted daughter groomed to be all the things necessary to inherit Saint Denis: A competent politician, a master thief, and an excellent liar. She is her mentor’s right hand and his most willful supporter. That’s why she doesn’t complain, much, when she’s turned into a nanny, assigned to watch over a precocious little boy. But Jack is only the beginning of her problems, and the trouble he brings might topple the empire she aims to inherent if it doesn’t burn down the whole damn city first.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 157





	1. The Investment

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M except for a few sexually explicit chapters (more to be added eventually): ch 8, ch 13, ch 16

[ ](https://imgur.com/ySriZil)

*Now with cover art I made instead of doing my actual job*

* * *

“A child?” She asked, dumbfounded. Esther peered through the window at the garden. It was one of the largest, most expensive, and well-maintained pieces of modern landscaping in all of Lemoyne, and yet there was a little boy climbing on top of marble benches and pulling up irises and generally showing very little respect for the art he was destroying.

  
“Can you believe it?” Bronte guffawed, not without humor, “The inbred trash gave me this,” he gestured to the boy through the window, “As a promise of payment. What am I to do? I could not leave the boy in their hands, to suffer their…” he let the sentence drift, lacking the lexicon to describe his disgust for the Braithwaites, “peculiarities.” He seemed satisfied with that word, and turned away to walk back to his desk.

“But why?” Esther asked, equally disgusted, “Whose child is it?” She heard a drawer slide open and knew he was picking out a cigar. It must be almost three in the afternoon, then. He enjoyed his routines and his comforts. He never missed his cigar at three, and another cigar and a glass of wine at seven. Sometimes he would vary the brand of cigar. Sometimes it would be from Guarma, sometimes from India, sometimes from someplace whose name she could not even pronounce with her extensive education, but he never varied the routine itself. In-between these cigars came the cigarillos, smelling of cloves, which he enjoyed all day long.

“Not theirs,” he said simply, and she heard him slice the tip off of one of the cigars. He’d made a selection. “I was told that the boy came from some wild gang that was making trouble in Rhodes. They needed to, ah, provide them a little lesson. Not that I think any of the people out there know what an education looks like,” he laughed at his own joke, and she smiled.

Bronte didn’t consider anything less than Latin and ancient military strategies proper schooling. She could speak Italian as well as he could, along with French, which was useful in Saint Denis, and Latin, which was useful in her coursework, and Creole, which was useful in her work with sources, and Polish. The Polish came from her parents, or what she could remember of them, and might have been at least a little useful if she lived in Blackwater where the rest of the Galician Jews settled. As such, they hadn’t seemed very interested in taking her with them. All they left her with were a few broken lullabies and some useless, broken phrases. She remembered her mother kissing her cheeks, and her father patted her on the head, and then she was pushed into the arms of maids while her parents boarded the train without looking back. It was her first education.

“So they stole a child?” She asked, feeling as though she were missing an important piece of the puzzle. The little boy laughed and ran from one of the maids that tried to stop him from splashing in the fountain.

  
“Hm, yes,” Bronte chuckled, “Very personal, don’t you think?”

  
“Excessively,” Esther grunted, “But the Braithwaites over-react easily. I’d like to work on outsourcing the moonshine as soon as possible. They make me nervous. If those hillbillies think stealing a child is going to impress us, or this gang, whoever they are, it shows a serious lack of understanding of who we are and how we work.”

  
“I would agree,” Bronte said. Esther sensed a but. She waited, but it did not come, and she realized that he wanted her to supply the other part of the conversation. He liked to make her do the arguing for him. He thought it was educational, though Esther thought it was more likely he enjoyed seeing her prove herself wrong.

  
“But you think a stupid business partner is not a dangerous one. You think they can be controlled. I disagree.” She held her hands behind her back, watching the maid sweep the child up into her arms.  
“Ah, my sweet magnolia,” she smelled the smoke from his cigar. Guarma, for sure, “You are so cautious. It is something I admire about you.”

  
“It’s something that irritates you,” but Esther smiled. It was a source of many arguments. Esther was not a wolf, as her adoptive father was. She did not circle the prey until it tired, waiting for weakness to make itself known. She was a panther, lying in wait, waiting for the strength to make itself known.

  
“Yes, but to know your mind is to better understand my own,” he rejoined her at the window, padding soundlessly over the thick, Turkish rugs in his slippers. “Now, I have a favor to ask.”

  
She turned to him, eyebrow raised. He only asked favors when he needed her to do something. Otherwise, they were called “suggestions,” and left to her own judgment. Favors were not something to be refused.

  
“I need you to look after the boy. Get him comfortable, eh? Get the stink of cow shit off of him and make sure he doesn’t piss on the rugs.”

  
Esther blinked, then narrowed her eyes, “You want me to nanny?” Rather than remind Bronte of exactly how much she detested children, she plucked a prime example of how little she thought of this idea, “Do you not recall Madam Guilleme’s words as she left this very house, two screaming children in her skirts?”

  
Bronte laughed, full of mirth at the memory, “I believe she cursed your womb to dust, my sweet magnolia, but do not let that intimidate you,” he put a hand on her shoulder, “I need your help in this. I think that this… merry band of thieves, as you will, will not take the missing boy lightly. I’m investing in this. I need you to protect my investment,” he tapped her collarbone with the end of the cigar.  
Her lips formed a thin line. She was already looking forward to a bath later tonight, washing off all the snot crusted on her arms. “Fine, but only because it would please you.”

  
He kissed her temple, “You are a man’s finest wish for a daughter! Now, there is another matter…”

* * *

She wore a maid’s uniform when she met the boy, Jack, for the first time. Disguises were nothing strange to Esther, and certainly, she had worn less comfortable, more demeaning clothes, but it irked her none-the-less. She met the other maids in the garden, where the squeals of laughter by the little boy were nearly absorbed by the hedges. As soon as they saw her they stopped tickling the boy and their smiles dropped from their faces. They didn’t know what ruse was being played, but they stood from the marble bench and curtsied.

“Don’t be too worried,” she joked, “My father wants to explain a few things to you in his office.” The worry didn’t ease from their faces, and she didn’t blame them. They were only trying to earn their pennies and go home at the end of the day, but so many strange things happened on the Bronte estate. They didn’t trust her and they didn’t trust her new uniform. Jack looked at the three of them, still smiling but growing more confused. “Off you go,” she barked. If they stuck around for much longer the kid would start screaming, too, just like those damned awful French kids.

They didn’t just leave, but scurried away. Esther felt a pinch of guilt. She didn’t LIKE barking at maids and butlers, but so often, she needed them to do a thing quickly, and it seemed that authority – applied loudly and harshly – was the only thing to move them along. And then she felt another pinch of guilt for thinking like that. God, she sounded like her father.

Never mind, to the task at hand. She smiled at Jack, who regarded her warily, not sure why his new friends had to leave, not sure what to make of the new maid who got to boss all the other maids around. She walked up slowly, like he was a deer ready to be startled, “Hello there, I’m your new nanny.”

The boy didn’t seem to react much to the new information. He touched the lobe of his ear, nervously, the mark of a child who has only recently defeated thumb-sucking, “What’s a nanny?”  
Right. He would have no clue. “A nanny is someone in charge of little boys and girls, and making sure they don’t get up to trouble,” she explained slowly, but didn’t dip her voice into the cooing and coddling tone of parents. She couldn’t stand that tone.

“Like… Like when Aunt Tilly looks after me when Mama’s gone?” Aunt Tilly. She tucked the name away for future reference.

“Yes, just like that.”

“Or when Uncle Arthur takes me fishing?” Uncle Arthur, another useful name. The gang was now four people if the boy’s father could be assumed to be present. That was a big assumption, however.

“How many aunts and uncles do you have, Mr…?”

The boy’s face relaxed. This was a script he knew, “I don’t have a Mr.” he said, probably referring to a last name, “I’m just Jack.”

“Nice to meet you, Just Jack,” Esther said reflexively. No screaming yet. That was a very good sign.

The boy giggled, “Noooo. Jack. What’s your name?”

“You can call me Esther,” She took a few more tentative steps forward and sat on the bench next to him. “This must be a confusing few days for you, huh?” She tried to remember the first few days after her parents left her. It had certainly been confusing. She kept asking the maids when they would return, expecting her parents to show up sometime around dinner, or the next day’s dinner, or the next day’s.

Jack raised his eyebrows in exasperation, comical on a small child, “I’ll say.”

  
“Those Braithwaites didn’t hurt you, did they?”

Jack frowned, “No, but they sure yelled a lot. And they took my book away.”

“Oh no! Which book was this?”

“The Adventures of Mr. Pippin,” Jack said, very seriously.

“Well,” Esther said, an idea forming in her head, “We have lots of books in Saint Denis. I’m sure we can find you another copy. And lots of other books. Do you like to read, Jack?”

Jack nodded vigorously, “I’ve read Mr. Pippin six times. I’ve read The Red Rabbit thirteen times. And I’ve read Charlie Goes to the Pictures fifteen times.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were quite so well-read.” Curious that a boy as young as this, in a gang, should love to read. Who taught him? She wondered. “Come on, let’s give you a bath, and then let’s see what’s for supper, and I’ll send a maid to Teller’s bookshop for more books to read after. How’s that?”

“Aren’t you a maid?” Jack peered up at her, momentarily confused.

“I’ll send one of the other maids,” Esther covered smoothly, irritated and impressed that the boy could pick up on something as small as that, “I’m your special maid. I’m your nanny.”

  
He stood with her, hand instinctively going into hers. It wasn’t covered in snot or spit, thank Christ, but it was a bit dirty from all the flowers he’d uprooted. He held onto a purple iris now, unwilling to leave it behind. She would have to ask if one of the maids also wouldn’t mind replanting it in a bowl for the boy. Irises are hardy flowers, it could probably still be salvaged.

  
The bath was, thankfully, uneventful, and her father had already located new clothes for the boy. She half-expected him to refuse. Weren’t children supposed to cling to what was theirs? Wouldn’t he want to keep his old, filthy shoes? Not so. He grinned as he watched his toes wriggle through his new silk slippers.

  
He was remarkably articulate for a child as well. Esther assumed it came from being forced to grow up in a gang of outlaws, which he seemed happy to chatter on about as she tied a knot his robe.

“And Uncle Javier, he sings after dinner sometimes, and Uncle Hosea will join him sometimes, and sometimes Mama will too. Javier sings real good.”

“Real well,” Esther corrected reflexively, then kicked herself. She wasn’t his schoolmarm along with his nanny. And he was just a kid.

“Real well,” the boy didn’t seem to pay her any mind, “And then sometimes Uncle Dutch will dance with Molly to that real boring music, the kind with no words, on a phone.”

“A phonograph?”

“Yeah, that. I prefer Uncle Javier’s singing, even though I don’t understand all the words.”

  
“Molly’s not your aunt?”

  
Jack smiled and shook his head, and Esther got the sense that Molly wasn’t very much the “aunt” type. The gang grew by the hour, with small talents and backstories and small habits that Jack had noticed. Karen got mean sometimes, and smelled like Uncle, who wasn’t an uncle Uncle, in the same way Molly wasn’t an aunt. Dutch seemed to be in charge, along with Hosea. The boy didn’t talk about his father much, though he was in the camp as well. Arthur seemed to be the most dedicated male figure in his life, teaching the boy to fish, bringing him sweets, finding him books.  
Dinner was with Bronte, who wanted to meet his new house guest. She stood back from the table, as a real maid would, stepping forward to re-arrange his napkin to catch the loose noodles and prodding Jack to speak about one thing he told her about or another.

  
Esther was surprised at her own adoptive father’s enthusiasm for the boy. He leaned forward and prodded Jack not just about his life at camp, but his love for reading, the types of stories he seemed interested in. And he ate. The boy inhaled his dinner, exclaiming about how much better this tasted than canned beans or peaches.

  
“Yes, I expect you eat a lot of that,” Bronte chuckled, “I suppose it would get… tiresome, after a while.”

  
“Pa tells me not to complain, because I always have enough.”

“Yes, well, I would never call your father a liar, but there is more to life than having enough, Signor Jack.”

Jack seemed to think this over as his empty plate was replaced with a slice of cake. His eyes became huge in his head, and he looked to Bronte for permission. Bronte smiled indulgently, and nodded, a glass of wine instead of cake placed in front of himself. The boy seemed almost afraid to touch it. The sponge was double-layered, the way Bronte preferred, with tall peaks of frosting. The boy ate delicately, savoring it.

She passed him on to other maids to prepare for bed, staying behind at a signal from her father. They watched him climb the stairs, hand in the maid’s and the other digging at his eyes, already tired.  
“He’s very smart, for someone raised by wolves,” Esther remarked quietly. She hadn’t expected becoming a nanny to be easy, but it was, with Jack. He was sweet, and seemed to think a good deal more than most children his age. He didn’t squall when he didn’t get his way, seemed content to be inside his own mind for entertainment.

“Yes,” Bronte agreed, smiling, “He reminds me of another feral child left on my doorstep.”

  
Esther’s mouth quirked in a smile, “There was no way I was ever that compliant.”

  
“No,” Bronte sipped his wine, and gave her a grin that seemed to have a mocking edge in it, “I almost hope those cow fuckers don’t come back for him. If I could turn you into a lady, imagine the gentleman I could sculpt him into.” He kissed his finger for dramatic effect.

  
Esther couldn’t help a spike of jealousy that seared through her. Stop it, she told herself. Jack is a kid. He’s been abandoned. You’re grown. But no one had come to her rescue, had they? She had only had Bronte, and Bronte had formed her in his own image. She had never been given a choice in the matter. She had let go of the bitterness that came with that inevitability in her teens, or so she thought. Truthfully, she just kept that bit of her buried, and let it lie.

  
“You really think his people will come for him?”

  
Bronte shrugged, “I don’t know. These are strangers to me, yes? But it never hurts to, ah, take a page from your book, yes? And be prepared.” He put a hand on her shoulder, “See how you teach me, my sweet.”

  
She rolled her eyes and followed the other maids upstairs. Jack seemed to wonder at the bed, one all his own, which he admitted to Esther he’d never had before. When one of the maids brought in the books bought just for him, brand new, he seemed stunned. It was probably a lot of adjusting, Esther thought. She sat on the edge of his bed, spreading the three new titles brought before him, “What do you think, should we read one?”

  
“Yes, please,” He yawned.

  
“Are you sure? You won’t fall asleep?”

  
He shook his head, determined.

  
“Should we read about… Let’s see, a bear lost in the woods? Or a story about a knight in shining armor, perhaps? Or a young boy detective?” Jack grinned at that last one. “Detective it is then.”  
Esther remembered when the maids would read to her. There was one named Carlita that was particularly good at doing voices, and she tried to emulate her flair. The story was simple, with lots of colorful characters and a loyal animal friend. His fingers ran over the stamped illustrations at the top of each page, filling out the world in black and white. She awkwardly held it out for him to see, but he crawled between her arm and her rib to lean against her, as if it were natural. She schooled herself not to flinch. He was warm, and smelled like lavender from the soap. Just a kid, and despite being raised in the woods by a gang he held little fear. She could remember being nothing but a bundle of fear when she arrived on Bronte’s doorstep. Afraid of Bronte, afraid of the silence at the front door, where her parents never came returned to. Afraid of falling asleep for the nightmares, afraid to touch the nice things of this house. Esther wondered if she had muscled down her fear or simply outgrew it.

  
She finished the story and put it on the bedside table.

  
“But there’s no way I can go to bed now,” Jack complained. Christ, here it comes, thought Esther. The wailing and the feet stomping.  
“Of course you can, be a good little boy.”

  
Jack’s face didn’t sour, but remained blank. She could see the tiny gears in his head working, trying to come up with a way to keep her here and entertaining him. “Sing me a song?” He asked.  
“Like Uncle Javier?” She remembered him telling her about it, earlier in the day. She wasn’t much of a singer. She didn’t know many songs. It had never seemed important.

  
“No, like my Mama. She’d sing to me. When can I see Mama?” He asked, plaintively. She was surprised he hadn’t asked earlier. Actually, she was surprised he hadn’t been asking all day. She didn’t want to lie to the boy. She remembered that at first, she had been lied to as well. Tomorrow you’ll see them, if you’re a good little girl. Maybe they can come to dinner next weekend. Bronte had never promised anything, but the maids had. Esther wasn’t dumb enough to think that they had done it on their own accord. They had to have known what was going on. But it had kept her calm, and kept the shock at bay. Still, the grief had swept in even more fiercely when the truth dawned on her. It had nearly drowned her, but kids are tougher than you think.

  
“I don’t know, Jack,” Esther said, “I hope you can see her soon,” and she found she wasn’t lying. She folded the coverlet over him, “Now go to bed. The faster you get to sleep the faster tomorrow gets here, and maybe you can see your mama then, hm?”

  
Jack didn’t say anything, and didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. She didn’t blame him.

  
“Był sobie król, był sobie paź,” she sang, pulling from the farthest in her memory reserves. She sat once again on the edge of the bed, hands on his small ones. She surely got some of the pronunciation wrong, but she remembered it all the same. It had been her favorite lullaby of her mother’s. “I była też królewna…”

  
She finished and he smiled dopily at her, “G’night, Esther.”

  
“Goodnight, Jack.”

  
She turned out the light.


	2. Smile Full of Knives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this moment in time, it feels almost disrespectful to still be worrying about fan-fiction. But escapism and creative works help remind us we're human, and we should rest, so we can fight another day. I hope you're well, and I hope you're safe.

Jack was re-reading his detective book in the gazebo, Esther pretending to be absorbed in some cross-stitch, when she heard the sound of small legs spinning quickly across the cobblestones towards them.

“Stay here, Jack?” She tucked the needle into the fabric and set the hoop aside, stepping down the gazebo steps to meet Daniel by the hedges a few yards away. Daniel was filthy, and stank even from where she stood of unwashed laundry and faintly of piss. It was the smell of Saint Denis itself. He was breathing hard, having run the entire way from wherever he was coming from, she supposed.

“Madam,” he croaked, thin chest heaving. His shirt was white once, a long time ago, but now it was stained yellow and brown, and clung to him soaked in sweat. Daniel had never had a bed of his own, much like Jack, but Jack got snatched up by strangers and so that’s why he was allowed to sit in the gazebo. Strange luck, Esther thought.

“Easy, boy. Why in such a rush?” She dug around in her pocket for a spare coin.

“Tommy sent me. Said there was folk asking around for the boss.”

“Yeah? They asking nicely?” She found one and flicked it to him. It rang and flickered brightly as it turned in the sun, and Daniel caught it deftly. He grinned, still catching his breath, and stuck it in his pocket quickly.

“No madam, being real disrespectful about it they was.” She raised her eyebrows for him to continue. He stared at her, lips in a thin line. The boy was probably only a few years older than Jack, but his eyes were hardened by far more trials. They were a man’s eyes in a child’s face, and the effect was unnerving.

Esther rolled her eyes, and rooted around in her apron pockets for something else of value. She found a halfpenny by chance, and tossed it to the ground, “Tell me about them or leave, I don’t have time to chat.”

Daniel’s eyes drifted over her shoulder to the gazebo, then back to her, slowly stepping forward to where the half penny rolled to the stop, “Cowboys. Stank of shit. Didn’t have no manners, Tommy said.”

“And they’re looking for the boy?”

His grin was nasty and unkind, “They want him back something fierce, madam.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, nodding curtly. Daniel swept up the coin and it went next to the other in his pocket. He straightened slowly, looking around. “I look forward to speaking with you again,” She lied. She didn’t trust his shifty eyes. He was technically a child, true, but she knew better than to think that made her safe, or made him any less violent than an adult. Saint Denis’ street children were put through the kind of horrors that not many cared to contemplate, and they internalized that apathy. Esther used to feel badly for them, but it wasn’t pity they wanted. They wanted a strong foothold to survive another wave of hardship that this city poured on them. Sometimes that was coin. Sometimes that was a warm place to sleep. Pity couldn’t keep them alive through the hot, violent summers or the cold, starving winters. It could get them a chunk of bread, and sometimes that was enough, but most of the time it wasn’t.

Daniel rolled his eyes and took off at a run again, out of the gardens. When Esther turned back around, Jack was peering at her.

“Who was that?” He asked when she was back in the shade of the gazebo.

“Some kid, wondering if he could have a penny.”

“And you gave him one?”

“Sure, I have plenty.”

“Do you often get kids in the garden?”

Esther laughed, genuinely pleased he’d noticed, “Jack, Jack, smart as a tack,” She smiled, “You ask too many questions, young man.”

Jack smiled back at her, but it was a careful smile. Despite his age, despite the warm bed and the bath, he didn’t quite trust her. She sat down and picked up her cross-stitch again. What a perspicacious young man. Bronte was right. He could really grow up to be something, if given the chance.

But his family was looking for him. Esther could call up another street urchin, get them word. It would be easy.

But it wasn’t her call. It was her mentor’s. And something else, too, some ugly part of her that Esther didn’t want to acknowledge, didn’t want to send them word. She didn’t want to make it any easier for them. They had lost Jack. They had let him wander off on his own, had let him get kidnapped. They didn’t deserve him. Bronte and herself could give him a future. No more sleeping in a tent next to his mother, no more eating canned beans, no more tattered storybooks. Jack could have everything he wanted, all the tools he’d need to build his own future. He would have the best tutors, the newest books, travel and his own adventure. Esther could protect him from Bronte’s will. She knew she could. It could work. And to think: She had only met the boy yesterday.

She shook her head. It was wrong to feel something like that, she knew. Jack wasn’t hers. He had uncles and aunts that were _looking_ for him, and she was only bitter. She was angry with herself for being so wrapped up in a child’s affairs, when it had nothing to do with her.

“Let’s go inside,” Esther said suddenly, “It’s hot out, and you’d like another bath, wouldn’t you?”

“Two baths in two days?” Jack’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes, that’s what Papa Bronte wants,” She stood and held out her hand for him to join her. He did so, eager at the thought of the luxury that waited inside, “A bath a day keeps bugs away.”

“Does that mean that I was covered in bugs when I got here?”

“Probably. I didn’t look too closely,” she said honestly. 

She dropped him off with two maids and told them she’d be there after a conversation with her father. Angelo Bronte was intrigued by Daniel’s message. He sat drumming his fingers on his letter writer in the office, the fine Italian leather red enough to match his cravat.

“They are getting close, I suspect those little urchins told them where to find us.”

Esther shrugged, “Your investment is about to pay off. This is good news.”

“And we will be ready, when they come,” Bronte nodded to himself, thinking. “I will tell the guards to be on alert. Try to keep the boy away from the windows, yes? And out of the yard, for now. I don’t want to give away our hand.”

Esther nodded, though she didn’t like keeping the boy to themselves so obviously. They were basically extending the appearance of kidnapping. Hell, they _were_ kidnapping Jack, at this point. They could find the cowboys by the end of the day, if they wanted to. But it was not the worst thing she had ever done, and she wouldn’t go against Bronte’s wishes. She would have to trust that the cowboys were smart enough to come here on their own, and unarmed.

It was another day, another bath, another bedtime story later that they arrived. A maid came into Jack’s playroom, where they were building forts out of blocks, to whisper in Italian in her ear. _The cowboys are at the door. Signor Bronte asks you to keep the boy quiet and up here, for now._ Esther nodded, a curt dip of her chin, but her heart was pounding. She didn’t know why. She and Jack were not in any danger, not with guards at the front door, the back door, the garden, and various places around the house. The mansion was fortified enough to withstand a small cavalry assault.

“Let’s read one of your new books, Jack, okay? She’s asked us to be quiet for a bit while Papa Bronte has a meeting.”

Jack’s face fell. They were playing some version of the game all children played; build up a tower and then knock it down, and it had been surprisingly satisfying to Esther as well. She enjoyed Jack’s careful precision in building, only to topple it over with a well-aimed bomb – or wooden block, as it were.

“Have we read the one about the bear, yet? Or do you want to re-read the detective story?”

As she could have guessed, he picked the detective story. She suspected it was because the boy in the storybook wore a cowboy hat.

“How about you read it to me this time?” Esther didn’t know if she was up to do all the voices.

They sat on his bed. He nestled in the crook of her arm just as if she were reading to him, and opened the book up to the first page. She could feel the tiny shoulder blades digging into her arm, and she knew that this would be the last time they’d read together. He was a good kid, and probably the only kid she’d ever really gotten on with. Esther knew this hadn’t been anything on her part, but rather Jack’s even temperament. She hoped like hell that his mother appreciated that. That is Pa would be a little nicer to him, and that his uncles, Dutch and Hosea and Arthur and the rest would bother to read to him once and while. Would anyone in a band of cowboys even know how to read? She supposed someone must have, because the boy couldn’t have taught himself. He could read well. He didn’t even stumble over the tricky words, like “who” and “very,” which she had struggled with. She would have liked to have him read to hear, just a few more times.

Esther was also glad that his family had finally arrived, and were downstairs. Could have been here _sooner,_ but she couldn’t expect much more from a bunch of hillbillies. She felt the urge to give them a talking-to, to scold the whole group for being so careless. She quashed that wild feeling, mentally berating herself.

Jack had nearly finished reading when a maid knocked at the door. _Your father has asked you bring the boy downstairs,_ she said again in a hushed tone, as if Jack could overhear her Italian.

“Thank you,” she said in English, and patted Jack’s leg. “I have a surprise for you downstairs.”

His nose scrunched, “Really?”

“Really. I think you’ll like it. Come on, hold my hand, would you?”

He gave up his book with a heavy sigh that was funny in a kid, but did as he was told. Bless him, he always did what he was told. They went downstairs together, down to the drawing room, and she could hear her father’s and another man’s voice laughing. She could hear the mocking tone in her father’s chuckle. She wondered if the other man could hear it too. Lots of people laughed when Angelo Bronte laughed, even when they knew the joke was about themselves. That’s what lots of people did, when they were afraid of you.

Jack visibly perked up at the sound, and as Esther opened the door to the parlor he ripped from her hand, “Uncle Dutch!” He leaped into a bear-hug from a large man with dark, glossy hair and a goatee.

“Jack!” The relief on the man’s face was palpable. “Oh Jack, oh my boy, my boy.” He pulled away, gripping Jack by the shoulders, “You had us so worried, son.”

Esther stepped to the side, inconspicuously taking up a place by a vase on a table. The maid’s uniform rendered her invisible, and she could stick around and watch. She didn’t know why she needed to, but then again… It was like watching something play out in real-life that she had imagined for herself a million times over. It was intoxicating. Jack’s family had come back for him. They had _found_ him.

“Uncle Dutch, you’re hurting me,” Jack whined.

“Oh, oh I’m sorry,” The big man folded the small boy into his chest, “I was just so worried. Your mother nearly had my head. Your father, well…” He seemed to acknowledge Bronte’s presence again, “Your father was none too happy with me as well. He and your uncle Arthur will be back in a bit, I promise, they’re just running a little errand for Signor Bronte here…”

Really? Esther kept her face neutral, but flicked her eyes towards the man lounging back in the loveseat, smoking a cigarillo. What little errand could they possibly be running? Was that how he wanted this investment to pay off, on an errand? Her father ignored her, smiling at the happy reunion in front of them.

She could tell that Dutch wanted to ask the boy questions. Did they hurt you? Are you okay? But knew better than to say such things in front of Bronte. The man was actually putting up a very good front. He was laughing and joking with her father as if he were one of the city politicians. Port was brought out, to celebrate. It was cheap port, but no one would ever accuse her father of being a rude host. Not to his face, anyway. Jack sat close to Dutch but didn’t say much of anything, only when Bronte or Dutch prompted him. Did he sense the tension? Esther would bet money that the boy could feel the unease in the air. Jack was smart.

Bronte played Generous Host for an hour, long after the sun had set and he was usually enjoying his filet. When Esther was enjoying her wine and bath, actually. She could see Jack’s head start to bob, now that all the excitement had taken it out of him and the grown-ups were doing boring grown-up talk. She longed to take him and finish his detective book, one last time.

Just then she heard the front door open, and Luca muttering, “This way, sirs,” the same way he might usher a dog into the house. Heavy boots stomped outside the hall and into the room, making every head turn.

“Jack!” A dark-haired and dark-eyed man gasped, like the breath had been restored to his lungs. His coat was tattered and his hair seemed greasy, but the boy didn’t seem to see the dirt that encrusted him.

Jack was in his arms, gripping his shirt, faster than Dutch could hold him back. The other man in the room seemed to take up all the remaining space, a broad, blonde-haired thug with flinty blue eyes. She took note of the dust and mud that covered both of them, and a particularly nasty cobweb that draped over the taller one’s shoulder. Where on earth had they been? She glanced up and realized he was looking back at her, eyeing her as well. There was a rude question there, a sneer of _So what are you going to do about it?_ She nearly returned the look before remembering she was still in her maid’s uniform. She dropped her eyes meekly, playing the part. But she wanted to look again. There had been something there that she wanted a closer look at.

“John, Arthur, I think we’ve intruded enough on Signor Bronte’s hospitality,” Dutch stood, setting the port aside. The man with the flinty eyes made a rude noise in the back of his throat in disbelief. Her father didn’t comment on it, instead offering the friendliest of farewells.

Esther wanted to tell Jack goodbye, but his father had clutched him to his chest and was already in the hall, on his way out. Arthur tipped his hat to Bronte – a genuine cowboy hat, she saw with some amusement, and followed his friend while Dutch shook hands with him.

They watched them go in the lamplight, mounting up and kicking their horses into a trot down the street. Her father retreated back inside the house before they had even made it around the corner. Esther was burning with questions, but held back.

“What interesting new friends we make, sweet magnolia.”

“Indeed,” she shook her head, trying to focus, “Why were they covered in mud?”

“I asked them for a simple favor, among friends, out at the cemetery.” Ah, the grave robbings. She remembered discussing them with him. It was a small annoyance, in the scheme of things, but dangerous in the long-run if they allowed them to continue. Bronte’s grip on the city must seem absolute.

“You sent them to deal with a couple of petty thieves?”

“And I sent a man to tip off the police. I wanted to get the measure of these cowboys.”

“And they both made it back in once piece?” She asked, and her father suddenly grinned. It was the smile of a hunter whose interest had just been piqued. She suddenly felt bad for the cowboys. Not many people escaped that smile, full of knives.

“I think these cowboys might prove useful. I would like you to keep an eye on them, make sure they don’t stir up too much trouble. I’ve invited them to the party at the end of the month, but I want to understand them better before then.” He was already deep in thought, waving away a butler that asked if he would be having dinner now.

“Fine,” Esther growled, “But first, I’m going to have a bath. And change out of this fucking costume.”

“Yes, I understand,” He turned to one of the guards standing to the side, _Open the windows. This place stinks of cow shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh nO I wOnDeR iF sHe'LL eVeR sEe tHe CoWbOys AgAIn


	3. They're Headed Down to Saint Denis Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I when I started writing this fic in January, I honestly did not expect it to become so prevalent so soon...

As the adopted daughter of its finest criminal magnate, Esther was well-known in the city. That’s why she left the house in the early hours of the morning, wearing plain men’s clothes. Her hair was held in pins under her cap, and make-up usually used on her eyelids were instead darkening the lines under her eyes and along her cheeks. She stopped in the garden before she left the estate, sinking her hands into the dirt under the roses, getting dirt under her usually meticulously clean nails. She smeared the red clay between her hands, then patted her face and neck. The shirt and pants she purposely had never washed, and it was stale from having sat crumpled in the bottom of her trunk since her last little excursion. The pants were boys – no men’s pants would fit her, and the shirt a bit too big, making her look younger and the lack of hair on her face evidence of a teenager unable to shave yet. Now, she was Elliot, rather than Esther, just one of many in the cast of characters she could pull out at a moment’s notice.

Her gait became longer, her chest – bound flat – was stuck out, arms swinging in an unwieldly way that a boy with a growth spurt has. She could not simply play a man _her age._ If she did, she would need a mustache and a shape that would require many more prosthetics. She could not simply play a man _her class._ Because that would mean making all the noise that young, rich men did. No, it was better to play the aging urchin, obstinate and loud, but easily overlooked. Nobody wanted to make eye contact with her and make trouble for themselves, which suited her just fine.

The gas lamps of Saint Denis lit her way, shouts and screams and laughter sounding far-off in the more tightly packed parts of the city. That’s where she wanted to go, before the sky got much lighter.

A blind beggar was sleeping on the sidewalk, curled in on himself with a blanket that stank of sweat and piss. She kneeled, shaking the man’s boots gently, and knew to stand back while he roused.

“N… No!” He shot upright, scrambling for balance even though he was sitting, dragging air into his lungs even though there was plenty to go around. Forty years after the war ended, and it still chased him.

“It’s alright, Zachary, it’s just me,” she whispered.

“El… Elliot? Christ alive, what time is it?” He was an elderly man with salt and pepper hair, a haggard face that seemed to nearly envelope his thin mouth and rheumy eyes. 

“Too early,” she said apologetically, and dug into her satchel, “When was the last time you ate?”

“Nuns came around yesterday morning with some hardtack and some broth. I’m okay.” He peered at her in the dark, “What you doing out this early? Shouldn’t you be home? Surely you got a ma who’s worried sick.”

“Hardtack isn’t food,” Esther sighed, “Here, don’t ask me where I got it,” She pulled out a roll of bread and canned beans from her bag. She’d simply walked downstairs to the kitchen and taken it out of the pantry, but Zachary thought she was Elliot, a boy who visited and talked, not Esther, a rich woman who could _make_ him talk. She knew that Zachary would treat Esther very differently, and it was more useful to show this face to certain people. A poor teenager in Saint Denis had considerably less power, in most cases, than a rich daughter of Angelo Bronte. That made Elliot more dangerous to be, but not to Zachary, and it also meant she could talk to people she usually couldn’t.

Zachary took the food while grumbling about rules and lawmen.

“Listen, I’m trying to find some fellas. Maybe you could help me.”

Zachary shrugged, “Of course, Elliot, whatever I can do.”

“You hear tell of a bunch of cowboys walking around, maybe asking about the Italian?”

Zachary shot her a wary look, “Now what’s a good boy like you want to get mixed up in that business, then?”

Esther pulled out a coin from her pocket, and set it on the edge of his blanket, “It would help me out. Seriously.”

Zachary shook his head, relenting, “Yeah, they was around here. Making a lot of ruckus. A buddy of mine that begs over by the market said that one of ‘em gave him a bit of coin. One of ‘em trades there, and goes in an’ out of the crazy collector’s house next to the public gardens.”

“I know it,” Esther was aware of Algernon Wasp. Curious fellow, and even curiouser how he managed to get his hands on rare items of fine art. She had bought Bronte a birthday present from him a few years ago. No one else could seem to get Dutch marble.

“I don’t know about you getting mixed up in that,” Zachary mumbled again, “Bad business.”

“Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself,” She straightened and turned to walk away.

“I’m serious, don’t you go messin’ with the Italian. He’s bad news, Elliot.”

She waved goodbye, acquiescing. _Yeah yeah, I hear you._ She started towards the market. It might take all morning, but she’d wait. It would be a more economical use of her time, since she knew Wasp didn’t open up his shop until the afternoon.

She liked seeing the market when it was this quiet. It was usually so packed and bustling that the place teemed like a kicked anthill. Seeing it so still was a bit like being allowed into an empty theater, the place all to yourself.

She sat against a wall where she could see anyone coming through the market entrance, tugged the hat lower over her face, and waited.

The market slowly began to fill in, like a beast waking up it rustled and moved slowly then with a more intense pace. The meat sellers arrived first, so the chefs and maids could select the best choices for their employers. Other food venders arrived, and then the trinket salesmen. Some sold instruments and some sold masks, some sold bags like the one Esther kept an arm over and some sold cigars, though none like the kind Bronte would smoke. Those couldn’t be found in a public market.

A trapper set up his stall silently, laying out hide after hide after hide, until he seemed almost hidden by the dead animal skins. Not long after, her quarry walked into the market.

Arthur, taller than most with a near-scowl on his face had little trouble forcing the crowd to part for him. He looked the part of a big, angry cowboy. His black union shirt was filthy, and he wore no vest or jacket to sugar-coat his rough edges. His jeans were patched in a few places. He needed a shave. Esther kept her cap pointed at her boots, but watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was walking at a forty-five degree angle towards her, eyes fixed on a point on the far side of the market. Not going to the trapper today, then?

He stalked past her, spurs clinking. Now she allowed her head to swivel, following his frame as he stepped into a back corner of the market not many visited, and approached a green door. The pawn shop. She raised a hand to her cap and just as he looked her way, checking to see if anyone was watching, and pulled it down and made it look like she was scratching an itch. When she brought the brim back up, Arthur was gone.

She stood, stretching non-chalantly, and headed towards the green door. There weren’t any windows on this side of the building, but there were a few on the other side, though far too high for her to see through. It was risky, but Esther decided to eavesdrop. She leaned back against the wall next to the door, the picture of a loitering youth up to no good, and strained her ears. For a moment, she heard nothing.

And then a shout – it didn’t sound like came from Arthur. And then Arthur’s bellow back, “I know they’re in here!” Something broke against the floor. Esther didn’t bother to string together much sense of it in the moment. She would work on sense later. Right now, she needed to understand the sequence of events, because that’s what got mixed up in memories. First the shopkeeper, then Arthur, then something broke. She could hear the shopkeeper whimpering, but Arthur made no more sounds. Esther waited, glancing down the alley towards the market, but no one was paying attention to her. No one could hear what was going on inside over the din of everyday market noise.

Then the door exploded open, the shopkeeper running out and back towards the public square. He didn’t even seem to notice Esther in his hurry. She frowned. That man was awful eager to abandon his shop. She concluded that Arthur must have let the man go, under threat of his life. Yet Arthur did not emerge either. What was taking him so long? What could he possibly be stealing? She dared a peek inside, but couldn’t see much. It was a dark shop, and the bright daylight made her night-vision poor. She didn’t think she could see any movement, however. Where on earth did he go?

This was a bad place to get caught. She walked back towards her spot along the wall and had just sat down again when she heard voices from the open pawnshop door. Not just Arthur’s, however. Two men were with him, filthy and thin. They chattered quietly in Spanish, nervously asking each other if they could trust the man in front of them as Arthur led them slowly forward.

“Follow. Me.” He said slowly, enunciating, as if that would help their comprehension.

Esther was bewildered. Did they work at the pawnshop?

“We’ll go see our friend out front,” Arthur said again, and one of the men thanked him.

As they walked past, Esther inhaled slowly. The two men stank of unwashed bodies and shit. They definitely didn’t work at the pawnshop. She watched them leave the market and just outside the archway meet a monk. She stood and made her way over as Arthur and the monk spoke briefly. The monk was obviously glad to have the two men in his custody. Arthur seemed a bit bewildered himself.

Esther knew there were only two Catholic institutions in Saint Denis that required the cowl. She’d have to follow him to be sure. She also knew that she wanted to investigate that pawnshop herself, and there were only a few minutes, perhaps, before the owner came back with backup. Might be a police backup, in which case she could bribe her way to safety if she got caught, or it might not be.

Weighing the decisions in her mind while she pretended to stare at the butcher’s stand, she turned around and started back towards the shop. She could find more clues there.

It wasn’t difficult to find the secret room. Arthur had left the door wide open. It wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened either. The chains on the walls spoke for themselves.

A chill ran down her spine. Slaves? In Saint Denis? Her mind raced as she sprinted back up the stairs and out into the open air, gasping for the relatively clean smell of the city compared to that cellar. That was impossible. It was 1899. Saint Denis was a jewel of civilization. A harsh, ugly jewel, but it was the finest example Lemoyne had of progress. It was impossible, not without her knowing. Saint Denis, a slave-city? Not for forty years, since the War of Northern Aggression. Did Bronte know? How could he not? But how could he know and do nothing? Slavery? In _her_ city?

She felt sick. She was sick with anger. Murder, bribery, robbery; these were found in every city. But that particular black mark that existed against Saint Denis was a hard one for her to shake, no matter how hard she tried. There would always be those in this town that hold up that particular crime as no crime at all, but a natural inheritance of those powerful like themselves and those weak like the men that Arthur had freed.

Saint Denis would not exist without slavery, it was as simple as that. This country would not exist without slavery. And try again, and again, and over again as they might – they couldn’t seem to shake it. It was hard to redeem yourself from shame when some of the most powerful don’t even think it’s something to be shameful for. 

Esther found herself walking aimlessly in the streets. She needed to think. She needed to be sensible about this. Someone was slaving in Saint Denis, _her fucking city,_ and she needed to find out who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter are where the light detective work starts. But after that, things start rolling and the gang takes a far more participatory role in the story (finally)!


	4. Catholic Charity, Southern Hospitality

It didn’t take long for Esther, dressed as Elliot, to figure out which order the monk had belong to. The next day she loitered with a scowl on her face watching him shoo kids from playing dice against the stones of the cathedral. She straightened, looked both ways to check the street, and crossed to him.

“They call you Brother Dorkins?” She called, putting a harsh drawl into her voice that, while it didn’t deepen her pitch, somehow made it more masculine. The talent was in the emphasis she put on her words, and how she wrung them out and slapped them down, just like an angry street urchin would.

He straightened and looked at her, “Yes?” His eyes were large and brown and trusting.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, sir, if that’s alright with you.”

He took in her measure. Usually he was the one chasing after teenagers, trying to tell them the good word, asking well-intentioned questions. Now that the tables were turned, he didn’t trust it. He was careful to keep the doubt from his face, however. She saw it in the way his hands curled slightly, a natural reaction to unpleasantness and a defensive move. Slowly, he nodded, “Whatever I can help you with, my son. But, would you like to come inside?”

She glanced down the street, then up at the cathedral. She didn’t really want to muck about. But this might encourage him to talk. “Yeah, alright.”

He led her through the doors, down the middle aisle of pews and through a door on the left. It seemed he was taking her to the mess hall, if the smell of broth and fried food was any indication. When he claimed a seat and someone dropped a bowl of broth and hardtack in front of her, she had to school her face to be neutral. She’d already eaten this morning, and no one with a choice would ever _eat_ hardtack, but it seemed she didn’t have much choice. She ate as if she hadn’t eaten in a day, while Brother Dorkins said, “So, how can I help you, young man?”

“I heard you helped a coupla guys yesterday,” She talked with her mouth open, rude and gross.

“I help lots of people,” Brother Dorkins said patiently.

“I heard you helped a coupla guys in the market, yesterday,” She specified.

Bother Dorkin’s face slowly closed down, suspicious, “Yes. How do you know?” He wasn’t stupid. He knew that interfering with something as high-caliber as slavery was asking for trouble.

She shrugged, “Ain’t every day slavin’s found out in Saint Denis. Me and the boys at the market, we talk.”

“That’s true. It’s not everyday that story ends happily.”

“How’d you know they’s was being hidden?” She asked, blunt. She found with some degree of surprise that there were hints of vegetable bits in the broth. Onions and carrots, it looked like. They were chopped so fine it was like watching holy communion wafers dissolve in the soup.

Brother Dorkins was silent a moment, “I’m not sure that’s… Quite the business of yours, my son. With all respect.”

She didn’t let the irritation into her eyes. She understood his caution. She would have to play this safe, “Say I work for someone that wants to do something about it.”

“An abolitionist?” Brother Dorkins didn’t keep the incredulity off of his face. Abolitionists lived up in Boston, and in any case, they were few and far between now. Most of them had converted over to the Return to Africa movement, Esther knew, but Elliot wouldn’t know that. Elliot would also never work for such a person, and Brother Dorkins wouldn’t believe him if he did.

Esther pulled a face, “A what?”

“A… person interested in securing freedom for others.”

“What? Oh, no,” Esther slurped her soup loudly, “My boss doesn’t care for… business that might cut into his ledger. If you get my meaning.”

“Your boss? And who’s that?”

Esther gave him a look.

“Right, sorry,” Brother Dorkins had turned thoughtful, though. He was mulling the facts over, “And your boss wants to put a stop to it?”

“Yeah, seems like,” Esther drawled, pushing the empty bowl away and crossing her arms on the table. “And you and your buddy, the cowboy, they seem up to the job alright.”

“You mean Arthur Morgan?”

Esther’s brain seized on the full name, an iron trap snapping shut, “Whoever,” she waived her hand dismissively.

“He doesn’t work for free,” He said carefully, “I’m sure he’d be happy to help you, but…”

“But you ain’t sure you want to get your hands dirty.”

Brother Dorkins seemed to get irritated at that, “I spend all day getting my hands dirty, young man. But I know that my hands must still be far cleaner than your employer’s.”

Ah, the honorable sort. Didn’t want to take money from a bad source. They were frustrating to work with, this type, because they constantly had to mull over the consequences instead of acting. They were also dependable. They tended to get the job done far more efficiently than the crooked sort.

“Look, if you ain’t willing to accept payment, maybe you’ll accept donations, yeah?”

“Donations? To the church?”

Esther rolled her eyes, “I’m sure there’s something y’all want done around here. Maybe you want new robes. Maybe you want more beds. My boss can make it happen, if you help point us in the direction of these slavers. You don’t even need to be there. We just want information. And a little help from Mr. Morgan, maybe.” She shrugged.

She could see the fight raging in him. Churches and orders always needed money. Especially the ones on this side of town. She was tempted to push her luck, and mention that there could be quite a large donation in his future, but she thought better of it. Better to let him stew. She didn’t think he would trust much more sugar on the deal.

Slowly, Brother Dorkins nodded.

“Fantastic,” She slapped the monk on the shoulder, “Glad you came ‘round.”

He stared at her, “Do I get a hint at whose money I’m taking on behalf of my order?”

“Nope. Don’t worry though. Nothing so nasty as slavery,” Esther grinned, “Now. Here’s how this will work…”

Esther left the cathedral thoroughly pleased with herself. It was fairly simple. He would write to Elliot Berger about the new tip, and a hefty donation would find its way into the poor box. She thought she might even be able to make one of the policeman on this beat do it for her, for a little fee of his own. A degree of separation from this job might help, and she needed all the degrees of separation she could get.

 _Why_ is Bronte not dealing with this? Maybe he was, and not telling her? There was a slow drip of doubt in her mind. This was too big for Bronte to not _know_ about it, right? And if he did? She shuddered. Angelo Bronte was a lot of things, but he had always taught her that the freedom to triumph over your fellow man was one of the most sacred parts of this business. The laws that ruled society kept those safe and secure that had no business being so. It kept the privileged on top. If he had followed the rules when he came to America, he would still be a poor tailor on the far side of town. Italians had it hard. Stepping outside the confines of that law, built by English men to help their English businesses, was the only way to make their way. It was the same belief system that allowed her to be unmarried in her mid-twenties. It was the same belief system that allowed her to move through the city as if it were her own, someone in the pocket of the family always nearby to break up trouble, usually wearing a badge or holding elected office. A bribe was different than enslavement. A bribe kept you human.

Esther mulled these thoughts over as she walked home. She needed a better plan than this. Right now she was only reacting to information, and she needed to be proactive. She needed to find out more about Arthur Morgan and his merry band of cowboys.

He hadn’t been to Saint Denis before. If he had, she would have heard of him, so there’s no point in going down to the police headquarters. She would need to go to Rhodes, where the Braithwaites were. That was the last place she knew they ran in, and it was her best lead.

However, Elliot Berger, Saint Denis street urchin, wouldn’t have much power there. Neither would Esther Dobranoc, a crime princess. She could go as the Widow Baldwin, she was fun to play, but why would a widow come to Rhodes and start asking about a bunch of outlaws? No, she needed to be smarter. A bounty hunter might come to Rhodes, looking for a bunch of outlaws. A bounty hunter from Saint Denis, edged out by the bigger boys working there. She found a long duster coat in her closet and braided her hair, not bothering to wash the dirt away from Elliot. She hadn’t played a bounty hunter in a while, and she’d need a name. She decided with Esther Cain. Easy to remember, though she didn’t aim to be. She changed into a skirt she usually wore as a washer woman, forgoing the corset. Esther Cain wouldn’t need a corset, and probably couldn’t afford one for everyday wear. The maids and butlers eyed her as she walked down the steps and out the back door, grabbing a piece of fruit and a chunk of bread from the kitchens for the trip. They were used to their master’s daughter dressing up strangely, though she had the sense that they didn’t find it at all amusing.

It was the middle of the afternoon when she arrived at the train station, perfect timing. By the time she rolled into Rhodes, it was beginning to get dark, and the noise from the lone saloon at the far end of town should have been loud and boisterous. But it wasn’t.

Esther breathed deeply, smelling the clean country air. It smelled of cow shit, true, but it was still a far-sight better smelling than some days in Saint Denis. And there was something else, too. She smelled smoke, and wondered if anyone was cooking in the open air.

The eerily quiet saloon tipped her off. Something was wrong in this town. When she stepped through the doors, the men and women inside all turned to look at her, then slowly went back to their hushed conversations. A chill of uncertainty ran down her spine. Esther wasn’t often uncertain. She was confident she hadn’t been recognized. However, the tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. There was a seething quality to the conversations, as if it was one broken glass away from a fight.

“Why’s everyone so glum?” She put on her thickest, poorest Saint Denis accent, something that sounded a bit Irish and a bit Creole. The bartender turned to her, unimpressed.

“You must be new in town,” he grumbled, pouring her a whiskey when she asked for it.

“Yep. Waddn’t much work in the city. Heard there might be work out this way, for a lady looking to help out a local sheriff.”

At that, she noticed a man farther down the bar glance at her sharply. The bartender’s face darkened.

“Didn’t mean no disrespect,” she held up her hands, “Did I say summin’?”

“Let’s say you came just in time,” The bartender growled.

“Sorry miss, we ain’t too keen on outsiders just now,” the man who’d shot her a nasty look kept the hostility in his eyes. The apology was a warning.

Esther frowned and looked at the bartender. The bartender looked at the man and seemed to get tired. He didn’t want to start a fight here, now.

“Why’s that?” She asked, glancing behind her. Rhodes had never exactly shown much of the famed southern hospitality, but this was downright unnatural.

“Band of outlaws blew through here, few days past. Murdered our sheriff and most our fighting men, then burned down the Braithwaite plantation. Murdered the whole family, save the daughter and a few of their working hands.”

Esther couldn’t keep the surprise off her face. The bartender nodded.

“None too pretty, ma’am.”

She and Bronte hadn’t known that the Braithwaites were murdered. They hadn’t known about the death of the sheriff. It seems they hadn’t known a lot of things. She almost admired the cowboys. It took a dash of talent to wreck such havoc and destruction. “The same bunch? Killed all those people?” She asked in quiet awe.

The bartender took it as horror, and nodded sadly. “Dark days for this town. The bastards.”

No wonder Arthur and John had managed to give the police the slip after the grave robbing errand. That was small potatoes, compared to what they’d already done. This was not a group to be underestimated.

“I’m a bounty hunter, though I usually work farther east. What’s the name of this gang, do they have one?”

“The Van der Linde gang,” said the man with the hostile squint in his eyes. He spit out the name like a curse. “Lot of people would call you a hero if you brought us their heads.”

“A little coin wouldn’t hurt,” she grumbled, bounty-hunter-style. She threw back the shot of whiskey. It was cheap stuff, and burned all the way down.

“We’re getting another sheriff in from Blackwater in a coupla days, if you’re willing to wait a bit,” The bartender said, cleaning a glass with a filthy rag, “I’m sure you could make plenty of money then.”

So the jail was just sitting there, empty? Her curiosity tugged at her. “Ain’t too sure a dozen other people like me won’t be here by then,” she drummed her fingers against the bar. She turned to the man closest to her, “You sure you ain’t willing to share more? I would surely appreciate it.”

He sneered at her and turned away. That old southern hospitality, at it again.

“I’d pay you for it,” She said quietly, “Don’t expect nobody to work for free these days, and if your information’s good, I’ll more’n make it back.”

He peered at her again, looking for all the world like his two brain cells weren’t much on speaking terms at the moment. Then he stood, and meandered over beside her, “Okay, but only to see those bastards swing.”

The story Lester – that was the man’s name, Lester – told was an interesting one. The Van Der Linde gang had started helping folks in town, ingratiating themselves with the Grays and the Braithwaites. Word is they even helped the two families in destroying each other, which Esther found particularly interesting. It wasn’t a smart move, not in a town as small as Rhodes, but it displayed a bit of cunning. That was good information to have. Everything came to a head when Sheriff Gray found out about the two-timing bastards, and managed to kill one of their men. That’s when the slaughter began. Then, for good measure, they burned down the Braithwaite’s place too.

That wasn’t right, Esther thought. She would bet money that murdering the Braithwaite’s had more to do with Jack. She asked questions that a bounty hunter might ask. _How many where there? What did they look like?_

Lester shook his head, “Gosh, there musta been twenty of ‘em,” considerably more aunts and uncles than what Jack told her, “Though we didn’t know they were led by Dutch Van der Linde til later, you see. He always had one of his lackeys out runnin’ things for ‘im. Like… There was one named Jose, I think, and Arthur. Did you know Arthur was deputized? Yeah, for helping sheriff with some stuff. Then shot him in the back, for all to see.”

This little band of cowboys, it seemed, also liked to play dress-up like her. They weren’t below a little playing pretend. She thanked Lester for his time, and slid him a crisp piece of paper money. His eyes widened.

“You’ve been very helpful,” she said, and got up to leave.

“You be careful, miss,” Lester said, dipping his head, “That gang, they’re none too friendly.”

She smiled and nodded, as if she appreciated the advice. She was surprised he didn’t step up and offer to help her. That’s what a man did last time she showed up in a bounty hunter’s outfit. She got the sense that they enjoyed watching a woman run around with a gun as a source of entertainment. Fine by Esther. A wise man plays the fool.

She walked out into the muggy night and walked like she was going to head out of town, but as soon as the lights of the saloon faded she cut through the woods, behind a church, and circled back. She had seen the sheriff’s office when she walked through town before, and its lamps were out. Nobody home? She threw a rock against the back window, careful to throw gently enough not to break it. It clattered, and nothing stirred. This was her shot.

Picking locks was second nature to her hands. She couldn’t very well be a very good spy if she didn’t know how to jimmy a stubborn desk drawer, or could be thwarted by a padlock. As it happens, this lock wasn’t too sophisticated and gave way easily. She stowed the tools back into her bag, and slipped inside, closing the back door behind her.

She didn’t quite know what she was expecting to find in the tiny little office. A slice of moonlight made its way through the two broken windows, but it still didn’t illuminate very much. There was a large bloodstain on the floorboards. She rifled through the papers on the desk. It looked like simple police reports, a couple of receipts, as if the owners were going to come back any day. Esther suppressed a shudder. She moved on to a different desk, where new bounty posters issued by Lemoyne were stacked.

She immediately saw her clue, as if it was waiting for her to find it. Sheriff Gray hadn’t outsmarted the Van der Linde gang. He’d just lucked into some inside knowledge. It was pure chance. She recognized John’s face immediately by the scars. His bounty was set at $2,000 for the robbery of a train and murder of agents of the state. The poster read: Wanted Dead or Alive. Identifying details followed. It was recent, perhaps a couple weeks old. For the same robbery, Sean MacGuire was wanted alive, a man she didn’t recognize, but who was also identified as a known associate of the Van der Linde gang. She didn’t recognize Charles Smith either, a Black man that the bounty poster labeled a “halfbreed.” An articulate and educated bunch, the federal office. She did recognize Arthur, though. The poster made him look a bit tougher, a bit uglier than he really was, and the scar on his chin was exaggerated. Arthur’s bounty was set at $5,000. Esther was momentarily stunned. That was a hell of a lot of money for one man, more than just federal government money. Someone wanted him dead, badly. He must have caused a lot of trouble for not just Lemoyne, but Ambarino. Robbery, assault, murder, fraud, kidnapping, impersonation of an officer of the law… Sheriff Gray had only just seen this poster before he took off after the gang, so this must have happened before. A serial impersonator. He sounded like he’d fit right in with Bronte’s men. She took each of the posters and folded them neatly, tucking them into her satchel.

She left and locked the door behind her. Esther was pleased. This trip to Rhodes had given her more information about the little band of cowboys than she could have hoped. And if she hurried, she could catch the last train back to Saint Denis before morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Back-to-Africa movement saw a resurgence after Reconstruction. A very weird, problematic part of abolitionist history. Well, *one* very weird, problematic part, lol. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Back-to-Africa_movement#Post-Emancipation  
> #  
> Last chapter was super short, so I decided I'd post another! Thanks to those of you commenting - I don't reply, but I read them and appreciate all of them :)


	5. The Proposition

Bronte hadn’t been as happy with her find as she had expected.

“What do we care about these cowboys?” He waved his cigarillo in the air, “They are… incidental. When they are stupid enough to make a move in my town, we will show them that this is not how we do business here. I might explain it to them at the party.”

Guido laughed at his bosses’ joke. Esther sent a silencing stare at her father’s errand boy. They had never liked each other. While Guido played fast and loose being so close to Bronte, Esther was cautious and reserved. Together, they were Bronte’s balancing act, despite the mutual distaste. Esther suspected that if she ever took over, Guido would need to be the first shot in a back-alley, lest he get to her first.

But to the issue at hand. To burn down the Braithwaite manor and murder an entire police force was no small thing. Bronte didn’t even seem phased by the news his moonshine suppliers were decimated. He said something about needing to find new ones anyway.

“Father,” she pleaded with him over his desk, “Listen to me. No, listen to the posters. Mr. Morgan is wanted for five thousand dollars. Mr. Van der Linde for even more. Rhodes was not a stand-alone incident, these people have made trouble, serious trouble. They’ll bring it to Saint Denis.”

“Those are federal posters. We took care of the federal agents ages ago, why should we worry?” Guido reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case.

Bronte cast a glance over the posters, then broke into a smile, “They are _cowboys,_ my sweet magnolia, and this is, as you say, _Saint Denis_.”

Esther couldn’t help but be less sure. She didn’t trust the cowboys to only cause a minimal amount of damage. She thought about telling Bronte about the slaves Arthur found in the basement of the pawn shop… but something stopped her. She didn’t think Bronte would lie to her. She didn’t _think_ he would hide something from her. But Angelo himself had taught her to be careful with what she knew. It wasn’t what she knew, but how she used it, and she wasn’t ready to use it yet. There were facts still missing from the story.

So, then. The cowboys and the slavers became her problem, along with everything else too boring or not monied enough to catch his attention. She needed to ask a few people about new moonshiners in Rhodes. There would be a supply vacuum, and the market would be ripe for the picking. She needed to move fast.

Esther carefully laid plans. She needed to draw in Arthur, he was the key. Dutch was too far out of her reach, and according to Lester in Rhodes, he didn’t like to get his hands dirty. But his lackey, his lieutenant, who had freed a couple of slaves from a pawnshop basement, provided her something to work with.

She wondered if the Black community in Rhodes would be open to working with them and buying stills.

Arthur would be here at the big party at the end of the week. He would be totted along to all the important deals, so of course he’d go to the party with all the rich folk, ripe for the picking. This band was entrepreneurial. The fiasco in Rhodes said as much.

Why would Bronte hide slaving from her? Never mind that – focus.

Working with disadvantaged folks was an old trick of Bronte’s. They worked harder, more cheaply, and were usually more happy to split profits. She’d have to send a guard out to Rhodes again.

And when the Van der Linde gang showed their Wanted Dead or Alive faces at one of the biggest parties in Saint Denis, she would have her chance to make contact. Bronte didn’t see them as a threat, and Esther knew that was a mistake. She would have to keep a very close eye on this little merry gang, very close indeed.

* * *

“Why, Miss Dobranoc, you look a sight to behold.” _Christ,_ she thought ruefully, eyeing Fred Walsh as he sidled up to her. He’d always been too friendly. He probably thought one very drunk, very sweaty night a year and a half ago meant something. And to any other woman of marrying age in town, it might have. But not to Esther. The option to settle down and have a family had been taken from her long ago, and she didn’t need it back. Walsh was sweet, true, but Esther knew that there was no future with the Chief of Police’s top clerk. From the way he attended these parties, followed his boss around, and tried his hand at editorials in the paper, it was obvious he had aspirations for public office someday. Hell, he might even be good at it. But right now, he was still very much a boy, with bright red hair and freckles on a tall, thin frame that rendered him harmless.

“Good evening, Fred,” she conjured up a smile, and sipped her champagne. The Van der Linde gang hadn’t shown their faces yet, and she could wait. “How are you?”

“Far better, now that I’ve found you,” His smile was heart-breakingly genuine, “This party is so dull.”

That made her smile, genuine this time, “I know you better than that, Fred,” Esther teased.

“Yes, well,” he leaned toward her, “I always thought it was bad form to say so. Who goes to a party and says, ‘Why, I’ve never had such a good time!’”

“Very faux pas,” Esther’s voice was dry, “Wouldn’t do for the future mayor of Saint Denis to be seen enjoying parties, enjoying the gossip and small talk. People might think he has aspirations.”

“Exactly! You know me so well,” Fred whispered conspiratorially.

“Better to be seen as the fussy clerk,” She whispered back.

“Right up until the moment of truth,” Fred tugged dramatically on his tie. “Quite my thought, Miss Dobranoc.”

Esther took another sip of champagne, while Fred smiled at her. “Do I have something on my face, that makes you laugh, Fred?”

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“That _busy_ look. There’s a plot afoot, I know it. Otherwise you’d be shooing me away. But you’re talking to me because you’re waiting for something. Or maybe someone.” He straightened and looked around.

Damn him, she didn’t realize he’d caught on. Esther was surprised. Fred Walsh always seemed too fastidious to be terribly observant, and she’d made a mistake of letting him get too familiar. Too many parties and too many jokes with Fred, and now he’d caught on. She shot him a look.

“Don’t be cross with me, darling, I didn’t mean to catch you out.”

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, irritated more at herself than at him.

“Do what?”

“Be so… Understanding, like that. Like you’re…” Esther stopped herself from saying _on my side._

“I can’t help but admire you at your work,” Fred said, laying on the charm. “Now, who are we looking for?” His head swiveled around pointedly, eager to be in on the little joke.

And as if the words had conjured them up, Esther saw Bronte talking with the cowboys on the balcony. Dutch was smoking and laughing. An elderly man was looking at Dutch. That must have been Hosea. And another man with a large beard. And Arthur, who grabbed one of the butlers as he was about to walk away with the light, and brought the man’s hand to his mouth to light the cigar. Something thrummed through Esther as he did, and she ignored it. Arthur let the man go and nodded his thanks.

Fred saw her eyes lock onto something behind him, and looked, “Oh. I’m afraid I don’t know these men.”

“You shouldn’t. They’re a bunch of hillbillies from the countryside.” Esther watched Bronte smile with malice at the men. How could they not sense they were walking into the tiger’s den?

“You meet such fascinating people in your work,” Fred said, still staring at the cowboys.

Esther resisted the urge to roll her eyes, “Slowly look back to me. Stop staring.”

Fred did as he was told, while whispering, “You were staring.”

“I was looking that way anyways. Stop trying to play games.”

“Damn, you, Esther, let me help.”

She looked at him sharply. Good old Fred Walsh, a meticulous clerk to the police chief, who could hide bribes in the account books so well that the station received tax credits for them. A true citizen of Saint Denis, with a young but developing nose for enterprise and a heart-breakingly-earnest stare he turned on her now.

“Okay, but you have to follow my lead.”

He smiled, and threaded his arm through hers. Arthur and the rest of the gang emerged from the ground floor doors soon after, and broke apart into the crowd. Esther let Fred steer her as she watched Arthur move from place to place, obviously eavesdropping. When he arrived at the mayor’s circle, Esther turned to face Fred, away from the group. The mayor would recognize her in an instant, but he wouldn’t pay heed to Fred.

“Walk me closer to them. Tell me what happens,” she said softly.

Fred obediently walked her a bit closer, positioning her between himself and the group so he could cast glances over her head. A quick learner. She pulled out her fan from the little velvet pouch clasped to her wrist and started to fan herself, keeping her mouth covered so that no one could tell that she and Fred were just standing there, facing each other, not talking at all.

“He isn’t doing anything, just listening,” Fred said, and she nodded. “Christ, Jemson’s drunk again. He’s making a scene. Jemson, that is, not your cowboy.”

Esther watched the crowd around them, looking for those who might be listening in. She didn’t see anything suspicious, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t the only one working tonight.

“Now your cowboy – oh my, -- he just took Jemson by the arm and dragged him away.”

“Should we follow?” She asked.

“No no, I think he’s coming back,” Fred glanced down at her a moment. She saw a bit of a smile there, and knew what he was thinking. _See? I’m not useless._ Esther once again fought the urge to roll her eyes. Fred glanced up, “Okay, he’s returned. The mayor is thanking him… Oh, now there’s a butler, talking to the mayor. He’s fairly insistent. The mayor is waving him off…” Fred frowned, “But now the cowboy is leaving. He seems set on that butler, looks like.”

Esther risked a glance over her shoulder, and sure enough, Arthur was following the butler through the crowd. And getting away quickly.

“Thank you Fred,” she said, already moving, “You’ve been a big help.”

She heard him protest as she left, but she was already through the crowd, picking up her skirts a bit so she won’t trip on them in her haste to follow the man following the butler. It was easy enough, as he had the only head without a top hat and shoulders that said _boxer_ rather than _high-society gentleman._ She saw the butler go around the side of the house, and slowed. He would be going inside, through the staff entrance. She could use the public entrance, and cut them off. She diverted, quickly climbing the stairs and stepping inside the atrium. Sure enough, she saw the butler cross the hall through the open doors in front of her, and she ducked behind a plant. The staff might recognize her, and she’d rather not tip off her quarry just yet.

She heard the butler talking in the next room to another staff member. Something about a phone call? Then she heard a name. Cornwall. Ah yes, of course. The mayor owed a pretty penny to the oil baron, partly because he refused to borrow any more from Bronte. Much more, and Bronte could perform a coup with the banks alone.

“Miss Dobranoc?” A small, feminine voice called to her. A maid peered at her from the staircase, and paused from climbing to the next floor.

Esther’s eyes widened. She motioned for the maid to move on. Instead, the maid climbed down the steps and moved towards her. _No no no,_ Esther made the shooing motion, but the maid just shook her head in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

Esther brought her finger to her lips and realization dawned on the poor girl’s face. The maid flushed pink and turned to go back up the stairs.

“You!” Came a shout. Esther froze. The butler charged through the door, immediately in the maid’s face, “You know you’re not supposed to be in here.” Esther slowly drew herself as closely to the wall behind the plant as she could, heart sinking. A spike of anger went through her when the butler slapped the poor girl, shouting at her the whole time. What a tiny, little man, she thought. The maid scurried away, not looking towards Esther. She’d need to repay her, somehow.

Through the leaves of the plant, she watched the now-marked-for-death butler cross the room and climb the stairs. She waited, and sure enough, Arthur soon followed. He glanced over his shoulder as he did so, creeping low and taking long strides across the floor to catch up. He’d shaved since she last saw him, and put pomade in his hair. Esther smiled at the idea of the cowboy spiffying himself up for a party in the big city.

She followed. They’d be headed to the office, where the telephone in the house was. As she peered around the corner at the top of the stairs, she saw the cowboy slip into the open office door and move to the desk, still facing away from her. He took the letter opener and expertly jimmied the drawer open, quickly sorting through the paperwork there. Something caught his eye. He inspected it with careful hands.

“Cornwall?” He muttered to himself, “Very interesting.”

The butler was still being yelled at over the phone in the next room, and she walked to the doorway, “What’s so interesting?” She whispered.

The cowboy nearly leapt out of his skin, letter opener instantly back in his hand and held low, ready to be used. He looked at her in wild surprise, not used to being caught out. His stare was furious. She returned it coolly, keeping her face neutral and unimpressed.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” she said softly, nodding at the letter opener. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they finish their delightful conversation,” and she turned her back on him.

Esther had made a gamble in doing so, and she found that she had gambled badly. You can turn your back on cows and sheep when they feel threatened, but you can’t turn your back on dogs. She felt his hand circle around her throat without a sound, and the cold steel of the letter opener against her cheek as he pushed her into the hallway, “Not a sound,” He hissed, breath hot against her ear, “Make one move and you’re done.” She could hardly breathe, but Esther stayed calm. She had to stay calm.

He dragged her the wrong way down the hallway, moving deeper into the house. This was a mistake. He should be going the opposite direction. But he didn’t know the house like she did. He might think that this was the safer route, though their chances of being spotted were growing exponentially, “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Esther choked out again, and his hand around her neck tightened. God, how could she have been so stupid? She was angrier at herself than at the cowboy. She was smarter than this. She kept her hands level in front of her, a picture of helplessness. She could crush his instep with her heel, throw her head back into his teeth and nose if she needed to escape. But then, her plan would fall to pieces.

They both froze when the heard a familiar Italian accent loudly pontificating to himself. It was coming from in front of them.

“Shit,” she gasped, though spots were starting to float in her eyes.

“Shut it,” he hissed.

The voice of Angelo Bronte was getting louder. She knew he would be headed down this hallway to use the front entrance and rejoin the party. Her brain scrambled, trying to figure out what to do.

“You’re going to get us… caught,” she choked back, unable to help herself. Esther Dobranoc did not panic, but she was very close to it right now. If her father saw them like this, not only would her plan be in ruins, she would be in a good deal of trouble for allowing herself to be compromised.

He threw her against a door to a guest bedroom with a strength that surprised her, “Open the goddamn door,” his voice was harsh. He sounded like he was near panicking too. Bronte’s ever-louder voice spurred her on. Esther focused. She had to keep him calm. She had to keep herself calm. Arthur’s body pressed against hers, willing the door to open, letter opener temporarily forgotten. She gripped the doorknob and twisted, and gravity did the rest. She tripped and fell with an _oomf_ while he rushed in and shut the door behind them, breathing hard.

This was not where she wanted to have this conversation, and she certainly didn’t trust Arthur with the letter opener. Athur stood stock-still while Esther panted on the richly embroidered rug, listening to Bronte’s loud Italian come into the hallway they were just in. He was complaining about the food. Her heart pounded, but she didn’t dare breathe. His voice disappeared down the stairs, along with his footsteps and his cronies’ footsteps, changing the topic to complain about the service in this house. Silence slowly crept back in, the party barely audible through the thick oak of the door.

He whipped around to face her, “You’re the goddamn maid,” Arthur whispered harshly, voice barely under control, “You’re the goddamn maid!”

“What?” She was confused. What maid? She was wearing some of the finest satins that Saint Denis had to offer, in the London style, and couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a maid.

“In Bronte’s house, when he kidnapped Jack,” He raised the letter opener at her, threatening, “You were there.”

He recognized her, Esther realized, and couldn’t keep the shock off of her face.

With a speed that seemed impossible with his size, he had her by the arm on her tippy toes in the air, “Who are you?” He snarled, “What’s going on? Why you dressed like you some…” She could see the gears slowly grinding out the words in his head, “Fancy lady?” Esther closed her eyes. 

She wasn’t used to being man-handled. It irritated her. Her brain worked, trying to weigh out next steps. She was fairly confident she could disarm him before he could seriously hurt her, but that would cost her. Arthur didn’t like to be a man without a weapon in his hand, she’d wager.

“I can tell you ‘bout to lie to me,” The letter-opener hovered closer, and his eyes grew flinty, “Don’t.”

“My name is Esther,” she said quickly, “I work in Bronte’s household, it’s true. Jesus, let me go, it’s not like I can run away.” He dropped her and her hand went to where he had grabbed her. She would have bruises there tomorrow, “But I also do other stuff. I don’t work _for him._ The Italian has plenty of enemies in the city.”

“So you’re a spy,” his face was hard, “You fixin’ to spy on me?”

Esther gave him a wry smile, “Yeah… You’re new to the city. You think people weren’t having you watched? You think Bronte isn’t having you watched right now, at this party?” That made him step back, and she could see it made sense to him. She could see the gears working in his head again, carefully calculating and using algebra it wasn’t used to. He wasn’t dumb. Maybe a little ignorant, but the cowboy wasn’t without wiles. “Bunch of cowboys show up, do a favor for Bronte? You think he’s your friend now?”

“I ain’t trust that little slimeball any farther than I could throw him,” Arthur snapped, then reined himself in. That didn’t surprise Esther. She bet it was Dutch moving all the pieces. It was useful to know Arthur didn’t trust it. Then he looked at her, eyes sharp, “But you ain’t his friend neither.”

Esther blinked in response, looking around at the room. The window let plenty of light from the party in, and everything was shrouded in a warm glow that still hid the finer details.

“You weren’t keen on getting caught out in that hallway. Can’t let him see you wandering around without your maid’s uniform on. Whatchu doin’ at this party then?”

“Looking for you,” She purred sarcastically, “Sometimes we gotta take a risk, in this business. I bet you know about that.”

“You don’t know nothing about me,” Arthur growled, growing bigger in the dim light. “What you want from us?”

Esther breathed. This was the tricky bit, “I know you shot up Rhodes. I know you burned down the Braithwaite operation. I know there’s a price on your head that’s nothing to sneeze at, and I’m just a little bitty bug in this big ol’ cesspool. People know about you, Arthur Morgan.”

His face darkened at his real name. She was backing a wolf into the corner. He had surprised her earlier, and she wouldn’t let that happen again. This was a dangerous animal she was dealing with, and had to be handled with a firm hand and expert care. She had to be very gentle with this, “But I’m willing to make a deal. My boss and I? We want your help. And we’re willing to pay.”

“I don’t work for nobody I can’t see,” Arthur growled, letter-opener still clenched in his fist.

“What? And working for Bronte is so different?” Esther rubbed her arm where it still hurt, “I bet he gave you all kinds of good intel on where to find cash in this city,” She saw on his face that she was right, and pressed on, “And the graveyard job went so well, huh?”

“Why would you be any different?” He asked, sniffing at her story, trying to find leaks, “You runnin’ around in fancy dresses and maid uniforms, I bet you lie for your breakfast every morning.”

She smiled, if only he knew. “Maybe, but I promise you’ll get all the details you need to know on this job. And I’ll be honest with you about what I don’t know.”

“Why should I trust you? Why me?” He snapped. She had to admit, that was an excellent question, and that was the easiest part of the story to sell because it was the truth.

“You’re brand new to town. Nobody knows if you’re with Bronte, or with the Irish, or maybe with some outfit out of Blackwater. You don’t have the old alliances that drag everyone else down. And this job needs someone without any skin in the game, someone who won’t have any fear of having their business damaged by helping me destroy someone.”

“Or maybe you just want to make me disappear at the right moment, and make sure no one will ask questions.” Arthur Morgan wasn’t stupid. That was a good point. It looked awful suspicious to hire an out-of-town man for a job where he doesn’t get to know all the details.

“What can I say to convince you I’m telling the truth?” She asked.

“Can you turn water into wine?” He sneered, “Who are you working for?”

Esther shook her head, “You think Bronte doesn’t have enemies? You might sell me out to Bronte yourself.”

Arthur chuckled to himself, “Yeah, I might,” there was an edge in his voice that she found interesting. Not many people threatened her. She had almost forgotten what it felt like. There was a beat of silence as he weighed her words, eyes taking in her measure, “What’s the job? Maybe I’ll say no, maybe I’ll say yes.”

Wasn’t any harm in telling him, was there? This part was mostly true too. “Somebody’s selling slaves in Saint Denis. It’s cutting into my boss’s bottom line, and we need it stopped. I’m wrapped up with Bronte all day, it’s too risky for me. I’d be recognized all over the city as part of his household. But you might not be,” She looked at him, “Though we might have to get you clothes that don’t come from Valentine. And the spurs might stand out.”

Arthur gave a humorless laugh, but she could tell he was thinking about those poor bastards in the basement of the pawnshop, “Awful altruistic of you.”

“Awful nothing,” she said, “It’s just business. You wouldn’t understand, anyway. Saint Denis has put that behind her.”

“Oh, sure,” He smiled, “The conmen and the politicians are surely heart-broken. What’s one more sin in this city?”

“Like I said,” Esther frowned, “You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t need to,” she continued, taking a risk and stepping closer, “We’d pay well.”

“How well?” The letter-opener, for the first time, drooped. 

“A hundred bucks,” She said, and Arthur guffawed.

“You want me risking my neck for a hundred bucks?”

“A hundred dollars a week,” she finished, and watched his face changed. “We’d keep you on til the job was done.”

Arthur scratched his chin, staring at her, thoughtful, “A week, huh?” She could see him rolling it around in his brain, feeling the weight of it, “And how long would this job last?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, “But this isn’t just a single robbery job. I’ll get information from a source, and we’ll act on it. I don’t know how long the information will last or how accurate it will be, that’s why I’ll go with you.”

“God, I hate this spy shit.”

“Do you hate it enough to reject a hundred bucks a week?” She took another step forward, “Besides, you won’t be doing any of the spy shit. That’s my job. You’re just the muscle. Break a few heads, keep certain people from getting killed. You’re good at that, aren’t you?” She needed him. She needed an ally she could trust that wouldn’t sell her out to Bronte, not until she was ready to have this conversation with him personally.

He gave her a smirk, but she could see he was warming to the idea. His eyes were less flinty now, more assessing, “And you’d go with me to every job? And do what?”

Esther shrugged, “I’m useful. I could do useful things.”

“Yeah,” the cowboy said skeptically, “Like what?”

As an answer, she pulled out the papers he’d snuck from the mayor’s desk from her pocket. She had grabbed them as he pushed her through the door, using her fall to cover her stuffing them into her skirts. No close associate of Bronte’s would ever be accused of being a less than excellent pickpocket.

Arthur’s eyes widened, and he patted his pants pockets in disbelief, “Sonuvabitch,” he snapped and leaned forward and snatched them from her hand, “You ain’t no lily flower, that’s for sure.”

“You don’t want a lily flower for this work,” She smiled playfully, “People will have noticed us being gone from the party. Will you help?”

Arthur gave her a measuring look. He didn’t trust her. But the lure of a steady income was hard to beat. “I’ll think about it,” He growled, tucking the papers into a more secure spot in his breastpocket. “Ain’t too sure this is smart to get wrapped up in, with everything else going on.”

“Think quickly,” Esther frowned. _I have a feeling you won’t be in this city for long,_ she thought. “How will I get in touch with you?”

“You won’t,” Arthur said, turning away from her, “I’ll let you know if I decide to take the job.” He stalked to the door and pressed an ear against the seam.

Esther sighed, and followed him, “These doors are too thick, can’t hear damn thing. But nobody’s coming, let’s leave, now, before somebody shows up.”

“How can you tell?” Arthur had dropped his voice back down to an incredulous whisper, but he opened the door, allowing Esther to poke her head out.

“It’s an old house, cowboy,” and she stepped into the hall, where the floor creaked. She could feel Bronte’s heavy footfalls as he had passed their hiding spot, reverberating through the ancient wooden beams. She started back down the hallway, not looking to see if he followed, “Try to keep up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur will be way more involved in the story from here-on, hooray!


	6. The Blessing of Fire

Esther straightened her back and felt it crack. Hands on hips, she groaned softly, sitting up from where she squatted indecently scrubbing the floor. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she hated housework. Her hands had been rubbed raw and dry from the soapy water, and her knuckles cracked and bled. Everything hurt. In exchange, she’d gotten perhaps the best night’s sleep of her life for the past few days as she played maid, wary of whenever Arthur would decide to show up he’d expect Esther to be in her little uniform. Damn lazy cowboy. She hadn’t expected it to take this long for him to make up his mind. Or maybe her plan had failed, and she wasn’t ever going to see him. If so, that meant taking on Brother Dorkins’ tip on her own. She didn’t relish the idea, but if Arthur didn’t hurry, Esther was going to start charging Angelo Bronte for her cleaning services.

The first time he had seen her sweeping, he had quirked an eyebrow.

She’d waved her hand, “Don’t ask.” It had made Bronte smile, and he nodded, continuing on his way to his office.

The second time, he stopped her throwing pails of piss into the street, “Really, Esther, this is beneath you,” he chided, “What could be so important you continue to put yourself in such…” His eyes had slid to the mess in the street, “Degrading circumstances?”

“A source thinks I’m your maid. I don’t want to frighten them off.” Esther didn’t really feel the work was that degrading, but to be honest, she was numb from it. Her brain felt like it had been running on autopilot for a whole month, without any kind of worthwhile stimulation. She could only imagine what it would be like doing this day after day, driven to it because the only other alternative was starving. And then she thought that was a rather shallow way of thinking about it. Without someone emptying the chamber pots, they’d sit there until Saint Denis overflowed in its own excrement moreso than it already does. She tucked a strand of wild curl behind her ear.

“Must be an important job, yes?” Bronte poked.

“Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m wasting my time. But you taught me to be thorough,” she smiled, and Bronte returned it, a little bit of manic glee in his eyes. It amused him. He’d left her alone after that. He had much more important things to tend to.

Now she looked at the sad state of her hands, raw from so much scrubbing, her feet tucked behind her and front of her skirt soaking.

“Madam,” one of the housekeepers approached her, bobbing a curtsey. They surely thought she was insane for keeping with the charade for so long. She’d told them to keep an eye out for one of the cowboys, but hadn’t given them any more information. The staff of the Bronte household knew not to ask questions. “You might go buy some carrots and onions for tonight’s stew. And some oil. We could always do with more.”

Esther saw that the woman was trying to spare her hands, and she was too tired to refuse the charity. Pity it might be, but Esther wasn’t feeling terribly proud in this moment. She nodded, “Thanks, I will.”

She stood and handed her the scrubbing brush, recognizing how cracked and wrinkled the woman’s hands were. A lifetime of working this kind of labor was etched there, and Esther could hardly handle a few day’s worth. Suddenly, she was embarrassed. “Really, I appreciate it,” but the woman only nodded and dipped her head, then took the brush.

Esther traded her cap for a sun hat and basket in the kitchen, then stepped out. She had never gone into the city under the guise of a maidservant, but right now it really didn’t feel like she was playing pretend. The ache in her back was real enough. She walked with her head bowed, listening to the sounds of running and walking feet around her on the cobblestones as she crossed into the park. It was a hot summer day in Saint Denis, a typical one full of noise and people moving from one place to the next. She was glad to be out, doing something that was at least a change of pace from the scrubbing, brushing, sweeping, ironing...

When she crossed out of the park and turned down the street, she heard the _ting_ of spurs following behind her, and knew to turn into an off street with an alleyway, the spurs casually following behind. The alley turned into a small garden with an iron-wrought table and chairs. Wisteria crept up the buildings and leaned greedily to where the sun managed to get through. Trash and cigarette butts covered the ground. Nobody would blink at a maid enjoying the sun in this little garden, not that anyone was around to worry. They would be alone here. She had a knife hidden in her sleeve – she wasn’t stupid enough to leave the house unarmed, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.

Esther turned as she heard the spurs close in behind her, Arthur not so much arriving as looming out of the dark. He truly did look every bit the outlaw. His shirt was in need of a wash, his closely-cropped hair did nothing to hide the roughness of his face and the sunburn on his forehead and nose. The pomade had worn off his hair, and he needed a fresher shave.

“You wanted a word?” She asked, as if this were the most natural place in the world for two friends to meet.

“Firstly,” he cocked his index finger at her, which she didn’t like one bit, “Drop that smarmy little attitude. I can still walk away.”

Esther rolled her eyes, “What attitude would your prefer?” She took a step closer, “Oh, mister, thank you for meeting me here. I’m in such trouble.” She made her voice thinner and put a hand to her throat, miming the same breathiness she’d seen ladies put on for their husbands when they were being difficult.

Arthur didn’t look amused, “Shut up. Secondly, I get paid up front.”

So he accepted? She tried to hide the relief that flooded through her. This job just became a million times easier, not that she would ever admit that. “Not a problem,” she said, folding her hands in front of her, all business.

“And if I ever get the sense that you’re tricking me, or your fixin’ to hurt someone in the gang,” he took a step closer, eyes getting dark and serious, “You’ll be makin’ a serious mistake.”

“Warning taken,” she said, blinking. She had more nerve than that, “I’ve got some rules, too.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilted his face up, challenging her.

“No bringing buddies along without my say-so. No killing without my say-so. No diverting from the plan without my say-so. I been doing this a lot longer than you, friend,” his face twisted in doubt, which she ignored, “Think you can take orders from a girl, cowboy?”

He seemed to think that over for a moment, biting his cheek, then nodded, “As long as the little lady don’t try an’ get me killed, we won’t have a problem.” He said ‘problem’ with the most country twang, rendering it, ‘prob’m.’ She liked that. “I can stomach that for a hundred dollars a week.”

“Another thing. I’m not your ‘little lady,’ nor am I your ‘young woman,’ or any other stupid little term of endearment you want to tack on. My name’s Esther. You may use it.”

“Geez, techy, are ya?” He smirked at her, and she felt a bone-deep tiredness settle in.

“You want a hundred dollars a week or not, Mr. Morgan?”

He rolled his shoulders, “S’pose I do.”

“Excellent. You start work right away. I’ve got a tip that there’s some slavers holed up just outside Saint Denis, and they have some cargo I’d like to take off their hands.”

Arthur rubbed his chin, “I ain’t been paid yet.”

“I’ll pay you soon as this first job’s done. Would be pretty easy for you to take off in the middle of the job with that much money in your pocket.”

“Hey,” he leaned down, “I said money up front.”

“And you’ll get it. After this job. It’s Monday, work-week’s barely started friend,” Esther smiled. She didn’t think Morgan would take off in the middle of the job, the fiasco in Rhodes didn’t speak to that particular brand of recklessness… Quite the opposite, in fact. Esther didn’t think this merry band of outlaws knew when to split. But it was better safe than sorry.

“Be at Algernon Wasp’s shop at nine tonight. You know where that is?”

“That funny little man with his goddamned orchids? Yeah, I know ‘im.”

Esther smiled, “Fantastic. So excited to get to work together, Mr. Morgan.” He grimaced at her, shook his head, and disappeared back into the dark of the alley.

* * *

Esther was thrilled to be able to trade-in the maid’s uniform for a pair of pants and a work shirt. She tucked a braid up under her hat, a cap in which she’d sown razor blades into the brim. She didn’t want to go completely as Elliot Berger – she’d be seen by Arthur, after all, and she didn’t want him to know all of her tricks, but she did want to pass unnoticed after dark in Saint Denis.

She arrived at Algernon’s shop earlier than she needed to, just in case Arthur decided to surprise her with friends of his. Esther hid the money under a rock she’d carried with her from the house just for this purpose, and stamped it into the mud outside Wasp’s shop to look like it had always been there. If she didn’t make it back or if Arthur decided to mug her, he wouldn’t get a red cent.

Arthur arrived on-time on a horse far too fine to belong to an outlaw. Esther appraised the white Arabian carefully. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in Bronte’s personal breeding stables, and looked tiny and petite next to her Turkoman. She mounted up as he drew close, “It’s a short ride, just north of here. Plan is to go in quiet and kill the guards, free the cargo.”

“Do we know what this place looks like?” He asked, voice loud and gruff in the night. The moon gave off just enough light for her to see the shine of his horse and his dark outline.

“Nope. Which is why we’re going in quiet. But you’re going to nab us a guard for questioning, provided we can figure out what the situation is and it doesn’t get too messy too fast.”

“And my payment?” Arthur didn’t seem in the mood for chit-chat. That suited Esther just fine.

“Meet me back here if we get separated, and I’ll pay you then. Now, follow me. If anyone asks, we’re just two gentleman on our way to the saloon.” She turned her horse and rode to the bridge that would lead them deeper into the bayou, but took a left at the sign. Brother Dorkins’ note had said that it looked like a common homestead surrounded by a white fence, like any other home, except for the wagon out back and the chipped yellow paint. She felt she’d seen the place before. So much for knowing this city like the back of her hand.

As they approached the spot, Esther slowed her horse, turning around to tell Arthur to dismount. She was surprised. For a moment, she thought he’d been shot. He was bent over the horn of his saddle, head against the neck of his fine horse, hands wrapped in its mane.

“Arthur?” she called, unsure.

She saw him stir and sit up, as if under a great weight, but it was too dark to see his face.

“You alright, cowboy?”

“Don’t you worry ‘bout me,” his tone was gruff and unfriendly, “This it?” He’d slowed his horse beside her, but she still couldn’t see his face too well. His skin was still shiny with sweat that gleamed in the moonlight. God, was he about to be sick? What the hell was the matter with him?

“If you’re going to puke in the middle of this job I’d just as soon do it tomorrow night,” she said seriously.

“I’m _fine_ , princess,” he snapped, and to Esther’s ears, fine-tuned to lies after a lifetime of practice, it sounded like he was profoundly not-fine.

Esther worked at the problem in her head. She could trust the cowboy and potentially mess this job up, or she could trust herself and turn around and head right back home. But then, would Arthur ever work with her again? She huffed a sigh, “Alright, but if you embarrass me in there I’ll kill you just as easy as the rest of them,” and dismounted. Doubt wormed its way into her brain. What if this really was just a small-time cowboy, incapable of doing a single job right? If so, she was about to make a real ass of herself, if she didn’t get killed in the process. “And call me Esther, goddamn it, I’m not your fucking sweetheart.”

“Sure, princess.” He sounded a bit more like himself there, she had to admit.

They hid the horses in the woods by the road, and continued the rest of the way on foot, guns kept holstered to keep the moon from gleaming off their barrels. They hunkered down in the tall grass, peering at the house. Esther shuddered to think of the ticks that she was going to be plucking off later, but that was a problem for Future Esther. Right now, she needed to focus. The only light in the house was a lamp on a table in the front room. It cast long orange squares on the muddy ground towards the road. She didn’t see any movement, or even any hint that the house was occupied.

“What do you think?” She spoke softly.

“You sure the monk ain’t messing with ya?”

“No,” Esther said honestly, “But my boss ain’t paying him to mess with us. He hasn’t got a huge incentive to lie.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t feel safe, like this, not knowing what was inside the house. They could try to sneak in, potentially walking in on a dozen armed men, potentially no-one. They could walk up to the house and try to draw them out. “But I don’t like not knowing what’s inside, or what kind of defenses these guys have set-up.”

“I agree,” Arthur growled. He looked around, “Mud in front of the house seems pretty turned up. They see a lot of traffic. There’s a wagon out back there, see it?”

“Yeah, I see it,” her brain was working, “It’d be nice to be able to load everyone up in there to make the get-away, if there really is anyone in this damn house.”

Arthur suddenly stuck a hand up over the grass, palm out. She grabbed his wrist and pulled it down, “Idiot, tryna get us caught?”

Arthur yanked his arm out of her grip, shooting her a look with those flinty blue eyes, “Wind’s coming from behind us.”

“So?”

“So,” He said slowly, as if she were stupid, “I think we should make a little distraction. Stir the place up a little, and give us some cover. If we set a brush fire off behind us, with as little rain as we’ve been getting? I bet we got fifteen minutes to get in, get out, before the house is on fire. Smoke will give us some cover. Provide a whole lotta confusion, too.”

Esther nodded slowly. She rolled the idea over in her mind, testing out its edges, “Fifteen minutes at the outside, and on the inside?”

Arthur shrugged, “I’m no expert. Maybe five?”

Esther grunted, not impressed, but she didn’t know any better either. It’s not as if she could complain, as she had no other alternatives. “I can’t hitch a horse to the wagon in five minutes.”

“I reckon I can. But that means you’ll have to set the blaze, and go in shootin’,” His tone dripped doubt on that last bit.

“I don’t plan on shooting anyone,” Esther whispered, patting the hunting knife strapped to her leg, “Wouldn’t want to in that tiny house anyway.”

Arthur looked at her appraisingly, then shook his head, “What I do for a hundred dollars. You better have it.”

“I have it,” Esther growled, and shoved him away, “Get the horses. Use my Turkoman, Cuez, I don’t trust your pretty little pony.”

Arthur made a face, “Cuez?”

“A story for when we’re both back in Saint Denis. Move,” and this time her order was obeyed. She crawled backward through the grass, to the edge of the tree line, and pulled down some of the dry Spanish moss that hung from the trees. She wrapped it around a bundle of twigs and lit it with a match, tossing it into the nearby grass, knowing that its growth rate would be exponential. It wouldn’t do anything for a few minutes, but once it got going it wouldn’t be able to stop. She crawled back through the grass, taking out her canteen and soaking her bandana before tying it around her face. Then, she waited.

She caught a glimpse of Arthur’s brilliant little white pony once at her two o’clock, on the other side of the house, but Arthur did a good job of using the trees to keep the horses hidden. Then, Esther smelled smoke. She used it as her cue to push forward, out of the grass and against the house, then once again waited. She could see the smoke starting to billow from the other side of the field, winding its way through the stalks of grass like fog, as a dull glow started to outshine the moon. She heard bootsteps clomp across the floor in the house, but they hadn’t looked outside yet. Shit, she didn’t have time for them to notice the house was ablaze… Esther waited, her pulse starting to grow stronger in her ears. Damn, couldn’t they smell the smoke already?

The field fire was beginning in earnest, clawing its way towards her with slow inevitability. There was a bit of muddy lawn between the field and the house, but she wasn’t under any illusions that that would keep her safe. All it would take is a drifting bit of burning leaf and the house would go up too. Damn it, what was taking them so long? Sighing, Esther reached down, grabbed a clod of dirt, and threw it lightly against the window were it made a soft clatter. Then she pressed herself back up against the house again.

It seemed like ages, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, and she heard someone in the house shout, “Heeey…. Hey. Hey! Hey Jeremy, wake up! Goddamnit there’s a fire!” There was cursing and more stomping of boots.

Then suddenly, “If this place goes up so do your asses, get out there!” Two men exploded from the rickety wooden door in the front with metal pails, and they started for the horse trough. She ran around the back of the house, making a full circuit, so that when their pails were full and they ran off into the field where the blaze was like a line of light creeping forward in the haze, Esther rotated with them and stepped onto the porch without being noticed. She shouldered inside, arm raised with a throwing knife she’d had in her bag, and threw it without thinking at the fat man still fiddling with his boots on a filthy mattress. He gurgled and toppled, but Esther didn’t wait for him to decide to give up the ghost. She rolled forward again, hunting knife withdrawn from her leg, and was ready for the man who came through a door in the back to see what the commotion was. He raised his pistol – but as Esther had said, you never want to have a gunfight indoors, in these close quarters, and Esther closed the distance before he could even bring his arm up and stuck her blade into his neck. Blood immediately slicked her knife hand, making it almost difficult to pull out. She managed, and turned, ready for the next assailant. When it didn’t immediately come, she checked the bedrooms. Empty, and empty. Where were they keeping the slaves?

A cellar door in the dining room provided an answer. She threw the chairs aside and heaved open the trap door. The smell of shit and unwashed person hit her like a physical force. She hoped fervently that these people used rope rather than chains, but no such luck. She ran down the steps with the lantern from the kitchen, and was greeted with cries for mercy in Spanish and the soft _clink_ of metal on metal. “Shit,” she said aloud, then to the slaves.

“Donde los llaves? Donde los llaves?” She asked, “Quiero ayudar!” The gleaming of eyes and the grasping of hands was almost overwhelming. She felt like she were in some strange hellscape, surrounded by human misery she was almost helpless in front of. Almost.

A young woman, Esther’s age, shouted at her over the din, “El jefe gordo! El jefe gordo, tiene los…!” But Esther was already back up the stairs. She had no idea how much time had passed but she knew she didn’t have enough. She reached for the fat man’s body when an unknown force shoved her from behind. She flew into the bed, was half-turning with her knife, when the butt of a gun struck her cheek with such force she saw stars. Her mouth filled with something warm, and an instant later she realized she’d bit her tongue because a searing pain arched through her skull. A fist closed around her throat.

“Who the hell are you?” She was shaken before she could reply, hard, and the blood in her mouth ran down her throat and choked her. She attempted to sink her knife into the attacker’s exposed ribs, but her wrist was struck by the gun – a pistol, so hard she felt bones clack together. But she did not drop it. She coughed raggedly, gagged by her own blood and the wet bandana covering it. “Who sent you?”

She didn’t have time to answer before he was hauled away from her, flailing. Arthur’s arm was around the man’s throat, elbow locked under his chin, gripping tightly. The man clawed at Arthur’s head with clumsy, gloved hands.

“Got it handled here, princess?” He drawled, strain barely showing in his voice.

She opened her mouth to curse him, but instead blood poured out and down her shirt, setting off another coughing fit. Arthur didn’t understand what was wrong. Oh yeah, Esther thought, the bandana. She didn’t have time for this. Still gagging, she found the keys in the fat man’s pocket and stalked past where Arthur and the man were still struggling, though the man’s wild attempts to free himself were rapidly getting weaker.

Esther clamored down the narrow steps and held up the keys, motioning for their locks. They were shouting at her in barely understandable Spanish, shoving their shackles at her, shoving the locks. She started sticking the key and twisting, hardly looking to see if it had actually worked. Once she had to go back and wiggle the key while in the lock to get it to release. The people dashed up the stairs, desperate to be away, not needing to be led like the men in the pawn shop.

She finished with the last two, chained together, the young woman and a kid not yet thirteen, and followed them up the stairs. Smoke stung her eyes as soon as she poked her head out. Arthur and the man were nowhere to be seen. She hauled herself up and moved towards the hazey outline of the night outside. Arthur had hog-tied her assailant and thrown him over his pretty white pony, which pranced as the heat of the blaze pressed in on them. Arthur himself had hitched the wagon to a draft horse that had miraculously appeared. It reared its head uneasily at the closeness of the flames. He was gesturing at the man in the driver’s seat, one of the first slaves she’d freed, Arthur’s hair being blown about by the drafts coming from off the fields.

“Arthur!” She shouted, waving to get his attention through the haze of smoke, “Vamos!”

She turned at leapt onto Cuez, looking behind her to see if Arthur followed. When she saw a form mount the white horse – almost nothing was visible in the haze anymore – she turned Cuez and pulled alongside the wagon, which still sat in the yard with people chattering in the back.

“Amigo!” She slapped the buckboard, and the man turned to her, “Vamos, sigueme!” And she turned out of the yard and onto the road at a brisk trot, away from the burning field and the house just now catching fire.

Arthur and Esther left the wagonful of freed people at the crossroad to head north to Van Horn. She felt badly that she hadn’t thought of anything to bring them. They wouldn’t get far without cash. Esther stood up in her stirrups and pulled off a glove. She worked a small gold ring off her finger and flicked it to the young woman who had identified jefe gordo, “Lo siento,” Esther muttered, knowing it wouldn’t be enough, but it was all she had. “En Saint Denis,” she pointed, “es una iglesia por, er, para gente como tu, preguntas como Brother Dorkins, si?” God, she needed to brush up on her Spanish. The woman looked at her, puzzling through her Spanish, and nodded.

Esther turned Cuez and started off, into Bluewater Marsh. She didn’t want to answer any awkward questions about their hostage. Arthur followed without a word, his pony gamely picking its way through the muck and the low branches.

“I want to know how the fuck he’s slaving in Saint Denis,” Esther turned to Arthur, who looked at her with an odd expression. His face was darkened by the smoke, as was hers, Esther supposed, and sweat had cleaned pale little lines down the sides of his face.

“Alright,” Arthur said evenly, and pulled up by a large oak. He dismounted and hauled the captive like a sack of potatoes off the horse and onto his shoulder, before dumping him at its base. Esther also climbed down from Cuez.

“Who is he working for? How long as he been working for them?”

“Now just, hold your horses, dammit,” Arthur held up his hands, “Fella’s not even awake yet.” He brought out a canteen and sloshed some of it into the man’s filthy face. The man stirred, groaning.

Damn, her tongue hurt. She turned away from the captive and spit blood into the grass, pulling up her bandana. She patted it back down before walking over to where Arthur stood. She didn’t much feel like being recognized, however slim the chance. Everyone in crime knew about Bronte, and a great many knew about her as well.

“Excuse me, mister?” Arthur slapped the man lightly on each cheek, “The lady has some questions for ya.”

“Lady?” The man spat the word out like it tasted bad. He peered up at them, his face pale in the moonlight, while theirs was still grey with ash. He didn’t seem to mind being tied up, or at least, the gravity of his situation hadn’t yet dawned on him. “That’s what you call a lady?”

Arthur suddenly reached out and smacked the man in earnest, and Esther looked at him, smiling under her bandana, “Now that’s not very nice,” Arthur chided. She wondered if he was doing this for her benefit, or if he was just looking for a chance to put a little fear into the man’s rat face. It was funny, either way.

“Fuck,” The man groaned, working his jaw, “You hit like a bitch,” he sneered.

Esther kicked him, square in the jaw. She didn’t feel too badly over it, since she had just pulled half a dozen people out of a cellar he was guarding. Besides, this was far from the worst treatment she’d ever given a subject she wanted to question, “Do _I_ hit like a bitch?” She cooed.

Arthur snapped his head to her, and she met his eyes. He was grinning manically, blue-green eyes sparkling. Esther liked a man who didn’t shy from a little violence on a girl’s part. Some men she’d worked with were all well-and-dandy as they worked over other men, but blanched when she started dishing out pain. She supposed they thought it wasn’t lady-like, or worse, that they had boxed her in as a lady to be protected. When a woman started spilling blood, all of a sudden the party was over.

Arthur wasn’t like that at all, and they happily traded beating the absolute shit out of the slaver, before his attitude adjusted accordingly and he started to babble.

“We been at it for years now, please-!” Esther boxed his ear.

“Years? And never been caught?”

“We pay our dues, just like all the rest of ‘em!” The stranger protested.

“Dues to who?” Esther bent over him, curling her head to the side.

The man, now curled on his side, whimpered, “You know who. Everyone knows who. You’re in deep shit for fucking with him.”

Esther sucked at her teeth, “I’m ‘fraid not, son. I’ll need you to be more specific.”

“You’re dead. I’m dead for getting caught,” the man didn’t seem to have heard her, so Esther sighed and flicked the man’s ear playfully.

“I’d like a name, and you’d like to keep both your ear-lobes, think we can make a deal?”

The man seemed to see Esther for the first time, really see her, with his brows furrowed and his bloody lips trembling, “Really?”

Esther thought he had meant the ear-lobe thing, which she supposed she did mean. She’d done it before. Detaching a man’s earlobe was really no more complicated than cutting off a prize piece of meat from some animal carcass at the butcher’s shop. But what he said next clarified things a bit, and Esther realized two things; He had been serious when he’d said they were in deep shit, and two; Esther was the biggest fool in Saint Denis. And she hated to be made a fool.

“Angelo Bronte? You really didn’t know?”

Instead of answering, Esther bowed her head, reminding herself that Arthur didn’t know who she worked for, didn’t know who she really was, and neither did this man, and so there was no reason to react rashly. That hardly helped, though. She took out her hunting knife and put it under his nose, “If you’re lying to me, sir…”

“I ain’t lyin’!” He hissed, “What reason have I got to lie? It’s God’s truth and everyone knows it! Bronte’s been slaving for a long time, I thought everyone knew it.”

Esther stood, thinking hard. The worst part is she believed him. There was really no reason for him to lie. There was no one to plant the slaves and the whole operation in that house, except for maybe… Brother Dorkins? Esther shook her head, chastising herself for being stupid. It might be that this man had been told to pin it on Bronte if he asked, but again, where was the motive? It wasn’t like the police, if they raided the operation, could arrest Bronte, he owned the police… Then Arthur broke through her thoughts.

“Makes sense,” he growled.

“How?” Esther snapped, knowing she sounded defensive and hating it.

Arthur stared at her like she was stupid, “He took Jack,” Arthur raised an eyebrow at Esther. “Didn’t exactly broadcast the boy’s location to us neither. Made me and John go running around, shooting up a graveyard before he gave him back. Not exactly the… actions of a good Samaritan.”

Damn it, Arthur was right. She hated how much sense it made. And she had played along with it, acting as Jack’s maid, deliberately withholding the boy’s location even when she knew his family was looking for him. She dropped Arthur’s gaze, an ugly feeling crawling up her throat. It made sense. How else would the Braithwaites even know to give Jack to him? And then another thought entered her mind, one that made her flinch uncontrollably, so she turned away from the two men. How had her parents known to give her to Bronte?

“Then it looks like we’re done here,” her heart was hammering, and her voice came out hard and flinty. She pulled out her pistol and aimed it at the man’s head. He immediately started to whimper, and turned and pressed his face into the mud. She glanced at Arthur, “What do you think?”

Arthur looked at her gun and shrugged, “He won’t know who I am, and you’ve got that bandana over your face. Do we need to?”

He had a point. An execution might raise more questions than answers. She looked back down at this stranger they had beaten, realizing she’d never bothered to ask his name. She wasn’t about to. Esther leaned over, “I think you’re going to miss your train to Van Horn, friend.” The threat was laced through every word. _Never let me see you again._ She turned and walked away, sheathing her knife. Esther mounted Cuez, nodding for Arthur to do the same. She holstered her pistol, waiting for Arthur to take the lead as they left the man crying and shaking in his own piss on the ground.

* * *

Back at Algernon Wasp’s shop, the sky in the east was just beginning to lighten. Esther shook the folded bill and dirt fell from it, and she held it over to Arthur with two fingers, “For services rendered.”

Arthur smirked and took it, tucking it somewhere in a back pocket for safekeeping, “Pleasure doing business with ya.”

“Same to you. Not often I don’t work with idiots,” Esther said.

Arthur laughed, shaking his head, “There must be some awful low bar then.”

“I suppose there is,” Esther wanted to get back to the mansion, Bronte’s mansion, and have a bath. Bronte… That was going to require some serious thought. She tugged the bandana down for the first time, breathing in the cool air, and Arthur sucked in air through his teeth. Oh, right, her bleeding mouth. She must look a mess. “Bit my tongue earlier,” Esther explained.

“You look awful,” he said.

“Thanks. Do you want more work or not?”

“Sure,” Arthur shrugged, “Wasn’t too difficult, far as these things go. You can get ahold of me writing to Tacitus Kilgore. The gang sends somebody to pick up the mail occasionally.” He was turning, headed back to his white Arabian.

“I’ll do that,” Esther said, watching him go. Things were different now. Suddenly, she couldn’t trust her boss, her adopted father. Suddenly, all the trappings of politics and favors that had shrouded her in protection earlier didn’t seem so secure, and felt more like bridges to burn. How could he betray her like this? No, she was making this personal. How could they betray Saint Denis? There were lines she thought they didn’t cross, and this was so obviously one of them. As Arthur rode away on his ridiculous white pony, Esther was glad to have the cowboy around. At least one man was in her corner, so long as the money stayed good. 


	7. Documents of Civilization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early, since I won't have time to post later or tomorrow.   
> #  
> A note: I (the gang) uses the word "Indian" to describe indigenous Americans. Yes, this is fanfiction, so probably shouldn't. BUT, wanted to remain loyal to the time period (since I'm making an effort) and rez/rez-neighbor culture which uses it often (in my limited experiences with it).

“There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism.” – Walter Benjamin

“This place… Ain’t no such thing as civilized.” – Dutch Van der Linde

#

_I thank you and our mutual friend for your aid in delivering these souls to me. A few have left to return to Mexico, but some have agreed to stay, and it fills me with joy to help them realize the promise of this Promised Land. Your employer’s contribution is greatly appreciated, and will be put to good use._

_I do not write simply to thank you, but once again ask in your assistance. A train full of lost souls will arrive at the end of the week in Saint Denis, but not in the passenger cars. This will be Army cargo coming from the Grizzlies. I have been told that it should arrive in the early hours of Saturday morning, all the better to smuggle its goods. With your help, I hope it does not arrive._

_Sincerely,_

_BD_

#

_Dear Mr. Kilgore,_

_I have received word from my brother and your friend, Dorkins. We have need of your particular skills once again, though this time for a rather larger and fast-paced quarry. Bring two trusted friends who are swift riders. I will meet you Friday evening at Brandywine Drop, where I hope to catch our prey._

_Your friend in business,_

_Esther_

#

She told Bronte that she was following-up on new leads for moonshine stills willing to partner with them after the Braithwaite operation was destroyed. It required a little camping, she told him, which wasn’t untrue.

“Feh,” he waved his hand in disgust, “Better you than me. You know how the country air affects me.”

She did plan on doing more on-the-ground surveying for potential moonshine partners, and this would buy her a little time. In a duster and men’s pants – there was no way in hell Esther was going to ride all the way to Annesburg in a skirt – she went north.

It was all the time in the world to think about what she was going to do about Bronte slaving. The thought had been like a hot stove in her mind, and it hurt to touch, but she knew she would have to do… something. Esther had done a lot of bad things to push her father’s business forward. She’d killed informants and she’d bribed police to look the other way. She’d stolen information from competitors and used it against them, to crush their businesses into the dust. But that’s because they played the same game she did, where the rules were known to them and no one was without blood on their hands. She’d never killed an innocent, and she’d never enslaved someone – or so she thought. She wasn’t so sure now. Bronte had made her an accomplice to that, with Jack. Esther felt hate grow in her, leeching on the loyalty she still felt. He’d made her in his own image, scheming and violent and nasty, and she was okay with this… was she okay with this? It wasn’t as if she’d had a lot of choice, as his ward. And why was she so disgusted with the slaving? Did she really have room to talk?

That was tricky. She’d done a lot of evil, that was undeniable. But she’d never bent someone to her will by _owning_ them. She’d never participated in the kind of bureaucratic evil that hid its ugliness under paperwork and laws and ordinances. Esther detested the ordered, boring evil. That was in her nature.

She also hated the exploitation of those weaker than others, the kind of exploitation that sought out the weakest. She did not seek out the weakest in her work, she sought out the threats and the allies. That was different, she reasoned. Was it different?

But perhaps there was another reason, a more personal one. She’d trusted Bronte, trusted him in a way she did so few people. She trusted him to know what was best, and she’d trusted him to trust her, despite their work. To have this operation on the side, that was a betrayal, plain and simple. What else wasn’t he telling her? He was just like every other crimelord in that god-forsaken city, the city that thought it had outgrown the ugly past. She had been blinded in her loyalty, both to her mentor and to her home. She’d been made a fool of for years, with her silly pride for both. That made her angry.

But what on earth could she do about it? Could she trust Bronte to gradually cede the business to her, as he had raised her to believe? Esther didn’t think so, not if he was hiding stuff as big as this from her. She didn’t know, not for sure. She wouldn’t make a move until she did.

…

She heard Brandywine Drop before she saw it, the dull roar of the falls drowning out the sounds of insects as she drew closer. The sun was just beginning to set. If the Army cargo train made no stops on its way from Ambarino, it passed into New Hanover around nine. That should give them a little time to prepare the ambush.

Esther was late to arrive this time, turning through the brush to the small lip of the cliff to find three horses already grazing, heads bowed and tails flicking. Arthur’s white pony was there, along with an Appaloosa and a Tennessee Walker besides. She couldn’t see their riders, and Esther assumed they were closer to the falls, out of sight. She dismounted, patted Cuez on the neck, and stretched. Her legs ached, unused to so much riding. Riding practice always seemed to be pushed back, but it was desperately needed.

She found Arthur and two Black men where she expected. Arthur and the elder man crouched with their heads together, talking, while a young man polished his pistol nearby. The falls had muffled her approach, and he was the first to notice the newcomer.

“Stay there!” he shouted, pointing the gun at her and cocking it without hesitation.

Esther stopped and held up her hands, lifting an eyebrow at Arthur, whose head had snapped up when the young man shouted.

He laughed, “Put that thing down, kid, ‘fore you hurt yourself.” He rose to his feet, and came forward, “Esther, the idiot with the twitchy finger is Lenny. This is Charles,” he turned and gestured to the man behind him, and Esther recognized him from the wanted poster.

“Pleasure to meet you both,” she covered smoothly, “Though I did specifically ask for friends you could trust,” throwing a kind smile towards Lenny. He was a handsome young man, and she liked his bandana. She suspected if his skin weren’t so dark and the light so poor, she would be able to see his blush.

“I trust Lenny with my life,” Arthur said equitably, “You didn’t specify I should trust them with a gun.”

“I will surely be more specific next time,” she held a hand out to Charles, who took it, and to Lenny, who had joined them. “What has Arthur told you?”

“Just that there are some slaves we’ll be freeing, while possibly irritating Angelo Bronte,” Charles folded his arms. His face was neutral, with no visible signs of tension, but Esther suspected that this could change very fast. She would have to be careful around him.

“True,” Esther nodded, “I asked for more help this time around because we’ll also be robbing a train.”

“What?” Arthur stared at her.

“The slaves are being moved as cargo,” Esther explained, “On its way from the Grizzlies. We’ll stop it just before it pulls into Annesberg.”

“We can rob a train,” Lenny said, jutting his chin out, “Might make a little money on the side.”

“There’ll be no passengers on this strain,” Esther clarified, taking a small breath. This was the tricky part, “It’s an army train.” Charles snorted, though he didn’t look amused, and Arthur turned away from her, hand on his mouth, thinking. “I know it’s risky.”

“I’m not risking these men’s lives for a hundred bucks,” Arthur was shaking his head, “We’re already in enough trouble as it is with the state. The last thing we need is the goddamn military coming down on our heads.”

“No shit,” Charles growled.

“That’s why I brought two-hundred bucks, and I’ll pay you upfront,” Esther risked sticking a hand into her satchel and bringing out a roll of paper money. “Like I said, I know it’s a risk, but I’ve got a plan.”

“Lord,” Arthur grunted, “Exactly what we need. More plans.”

Esther didn’t understand the reference, but let Arthur take the money from her hand and count it.

“We mess this up, we’ll have both the military and Bronte breathing down our necks,” Charles said evenly, his eyes never leaving Esther’s face.

“Bronte stole Jack,” Lenny protested, “And I ain’t got any friends in the army anyways. I don’t see how this changes things.”

“It would change things when we get our heads blown off,” Arthur grumbled, scratching behind his ear.

“I told you before we started that you could walk away whenever you wanted,” Esther said, “So what would you risk in listening to what I’ve got to say?” There was a beat of silence at that, filled only by the roar of the water behind them.

“She’s got a point,” Lenny said helpfully, and Esther flashed him a grateful look.

Arthur saw it, and pointed at Lenny, “She’s got a silver tongue, is what she’s got. Last thing we need to get ourselves involved in. Burning up a field is different, robbing an army train don't make a lick of sense.”

Charles unfolded his arms, “Like she said, we can listen to her plan, and if we don’t like it, we can walk away.” He shrugged at Arthur’s betrayed look, “Lenny’s right. We don’t risk anything by listening.”

Esther wanted to thank him, but decided to keep quiet instead. Arthur threw his hands up, and handed Esther back the roll of bills, “I might decide to take it off you later,” the threat felt empty, however, because Charles and Lenny were already walking over to a fallen log to take a seat.

“I might let you,” Esther said with a sly smile, “If you’re a good boy. Now sit, this might take some explaining.”

* * *

An hour later, with the last of the evening’s light disappearing, they rode over Roanoke Ridge and followed Esther up to the bluff overlooking the tracks. Lenny and Charles had been won over, Arthur leerier of the plan but outvoted.

“I don’t think even we can mess this up, Arthur,” Lenny had smiled.

It really was a great place for an ambush, with narrow, rocky sides leading down in a steep ravine where the rail tracks lay. The sides were so narrow that only a single horse could ride beside the train as it passed, unless they wanted a horse to break a leg. Charles had become convinced, listening to her speak, and Esther thought that Arthur probably only objected on principle, as a way to be difficult. It was that flinty light in his eyes, an intelligence that erred on the side of caution after a lifetime of erring on the other side. He couldn’t argue with Lenny and Charles, however.

She pointed, “Lenny, you’ll stay up here with Charles. Arthur and I will follow the train in. You got the dynamite?”

Lenny held up a bundle triumphantly, and Charles took it from him, “I’ll manage that, thanks.”

“Why can’t Esther and I handle the cargo car?” Lenny frowned at Charles, then at Esther.

Arthur was shaking his head, “Because we need somebody strong enough to uncouple the car. Now I don’t mean to shame you, Lenny,” he held up his hands as the young man started to protest, “But I’ve at least had a little more experience in doing that,” Arthur looked at Esther and jerked his head. Esther smiled apologetically at Lenny and followed him, kicking Cuez into a trot to keep up with Arthur as they headed north and picked their way down the hill.

“You don’t seem to trust Lenny,” Esther teased.

“Trust him just fine, like I said, but the kid wouldn’t’ve been able to…” He stopped and looked at Esther’s smug face, and scowled, “Ain’t like that.”

“Ain’t like what?” Esther poked, leaning closer.

Arthur rolled is eyes, “Just keep your mind on the job, princess. I ain’t looking for a distraction.”

Esther held her hands up, acquiescing, “We certainly wouldn’t want that.” She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but she would have bet money he looked like he was working over a sour candy. Given Cuez’s height, she had a little bit of an advantage over Arthur, and glanced down at him. She noticed that the cowboy had traded in the filthy union shirt for an only slightly grimy button-down. The bandana looked new. No distractions indeed.

The bugs and the frogs, even this far north, were loud. Arthur and Esther took up a place by the water, where the road temporarily dipped into the river alongside the tracks. If they were noticed by the conductor, he’d only see two riders on their way back home, and wouldn’t be able to see them follow into the ravine. She smelled woodsmoke, a cabin was nearby, but in the dark she wasn’t too concerned about witnesses. Esther stood up in her stirrups to stretch. This much riding made her hams ache.

“What are you doin’?” Arthur asked, exasperated.

“Looking for the train,” Esther sighed, twisting to stretch her spine.

“What?”

“I’m sore is all, Mr. Morgan. Gosh, you weren’t this techy last week.”

Arthur harrumphed, adjusting his cowboy hat, “Last week it was only a couple of yay-hoos in a house. This week it’s the army. What’ll it be next week, South America?”

Esther frowned at him. He really was more grumpy than last week. She wondered what had happened between then and now. “Something on your mind?”

She could see the rough outline of his face in the dim light of a half-moon, and it didn’t reveal much to her, but she could see the gleam of his eyes, and they glanced to her, then away. Esther let the silence sit, knowing that the absence of talk can sometimes draw it out of men. She could practically hear the gears turning in his mind, working something out.

“You work for Bronte, don’t ya?” For a moment, Esther was seized by panic. How could he know? How could he possibly know? He heart hammered, mind working quickly, before she realized he meant as a maid. On the father, the son, and the holy ghost, she nearly blew her plan to pieces before it even really started.

“Yeah,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t shake too much. She still felt the sting of adrenaline in her toes and fingertips. She needed to calm down.

“At the party, he told Dutch about a trolley station we could rob, with his blessing. I got a bad feeling about it,” Arthur admitted somewhat guiltily. Esther looked at him sharply. Bronte did not give permission like that, especially not to newcomers. Bronte wanted to destroy the cowboys, and give himself a little show while doing it.

“You should,” Esther said in a low voice, “It’s a trap.” The honesty came from her effortlessly. Why did she tell him that? It wasn’t any skin of her back if they wanted to do something stupid.

“How do you know?” Arthur asked, not defensively.

Esther sighed, trying to come up with a lie. _I’m his right hand, just trust me on this one,_ didn’t really seem a viable option if she wanted to continue working with Arthur, if she wanted Arthur to trust her. And she did want Arthur to trust her.

“I heard about your little graveyard dash, with John. I’m sure the police showed up at the exact wrong time.”

Arthur grunted, considering, “Even after he gave us his blessing, you think he’d go back on that?”

Esther snorted, “You’re not an idiot Arthur, and a bad pretender. You know that man’s word isn’t worth anything.” It was true, she realized, and it hurt in a way she couldn’t fully articulate.

“I’ll tell Dutch what you said. I don’t think he’ll believe that though. Hardly listens to me anymore.”

“Aren’t you his lieutenant?” Esther asked, realizing for the first time how similar she and the cowboy were. They were both right hands to some very bad men. It seems they were also somewhat at odds with those men at the moment, despite their best intentions.

Arthur glanced at her, the angle of his head questioning.

“Jack told me all about you,” Esther said truthfully, “He wouldn’t shut up about you, actually. Hey, how’s he doing?”

“Just fine,” Arthur said guardedly. “He… he misses the books you gave him. That Bronte gave him,” Arthur’s tone softened, “He said you were real nice to him. And I appreciate that. Really.”

Esther surprised herself by saying, “He’s a good kid. The best. I hope you all are still reading to him.”

Arthur chuckled, “Kid reads all day long, doesn’t need me or anybody else to help him. He sometimes gets lessons from Hosea, but folk are so busy… with everything, I think he kind of… picked it up himself.”

Esther was proud of Jack, though she had no part in his education and only knew him for a few days. And that old bitterness came back, this time angled at the gang. He was such a bright kid, and they couldn’t spend a few minutes to help him read?

“That’s too bad,” Esther said. The silence that settled over them was uncomfortable, though Esther couldn’t tell if it was because she’d let the bitterness into her tone, or because Arthur felt he’d said too much.

Cuez nickered softly, and she knew he must be tired too. He wasn’t used to all this country air, all that riding. Esther would need to blanket him when she got home, and rub him down, or he’d surely be sick. She leaned forward and patted his shoulder, feeling the reassuring warmth under her hand, and absently started braiding his mane. She would have his mane done-up in years past, but recently she’d let it grow wild. It seemed to suit him better. Bronte had bought Cuezaltzin from a breeder in Spain, had paid special bribes to get the horse across the sea. However, Esther had never seen evidence of his fine upbringing. He just seemed as temperamental and ornery as any other horse. A bit like herself, maybe. And maybe that’s why they got on so well.

She heard a dull roar in the distance.

“Here it comes,” Arthur said, pulling a bandana over his face and turning his horse to walk. Esther followed suit. “You ever rob a train, Esther?”

“Nope. I’m looking forward to the education.” She checked her pistols and tracked the train with her ears, feeling it come up behind them just as it cast its pale light over them. It was if an eye was on her, seeing straight through their little ruse, but it moved on as the train thundered past.

Arthur kicked his horse into a canter, and she urged Cuez to do the same. She glanced at the passing train cars, suddenly worried that she wouldn’t be able to identify which one held the people. She needn’t have bothered. All of the cars were either oil cars to knock down the dust, hauling coal, or supplies platforms. The only cargo cars were three conveniently placed at the very end of the train. It was suddenly past them, the vacuum pulling them along.

Arthur galloped ahead, his horse surprisingly quick, and Cuez was right on his tail. Esther didn’t risk glancing ahead, to see if Lenny and Charles were in place. There wasn’t time. She had to stay focused on her job, or else this wouldn’t work at all. The train was already drifting away from them, even as they galloped after it at full speed.

As if on cue, she heard two loud explosions ahead, and sparks flicked up from the rails twenty yards in front of them as the conductor slammed on the breaks, trying to see what was going on. Dust exploded off the side of the ravine, something clattering on the tracks. The train slowed, trying to avoid colliding with whatever was about to fall on top of it. A gunshot rang out, and someone shouted. Arthur and Esther were still riding single-file behind the train, following it into the ravine even as it had slowed. However, with the gunshot, and the clear indication that this was no accident, the conductor took his foot off the brake. The train lurched forward again, and Esther and Arthur split to either side of the last car.

Esther couldn’t hear if Charles had shouted “This is a robbery!” like they had discussed, and she didn’t care. So far, the plan was working. The train had slowed enough for them to catch up and safely jump aboard. She leapt to the car as Cuez huffed, straining to keep up with the train now trying to outrun the bandits. Another gunshot rang out. Esther grasped the ledge of the car and hauled herself up, keenly aware of the thousand pounds of force currently on the rails, and how easy it would be to have a foot taken off if she were to fall. Her boots scrambled for purchase, and for a moment she thought she’d slip, but Arthur was there, hauling her to her feet.

“Which one?!” He bellowed at her over the wind and the roar of the train.

“No time!” She shouted back, and she pointed, “Let’s take all three!”

Arthur nodded, leaving her and jumping to the next car. She didn’t need to explain. She’d stressed the importance of getting the cars uncoupled before they left the ravine, because after the ravine was Annesberg Station, and lots and lots of potential witnesses.

The night air screamed around them. It was a struggle just to keep her balance. She was prepared for the inertia of the train pushing forward – she wasn’t prepared for the gentle rocking back and forth, side to side. It played with her sense of distance. But there wasn’t time.

She followed the cowboy, running and jumping, not giving her mind time to process her fear, just letting it push her along. Once more over the gap, and she landed on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Arthur turned, making sure she was alright and she waved him off, glancing ahead to see how much ravine they had left.

She went for her gun, but was too late, as a guard got off a shot at them from an oil spraying carriage. Fire lit up along Esther’s forearm, which had gone up in an involuntary “stop” motion, purely instinctual. She screamed as Arthur fired his own pistol, pulled the instant Esther had gone for hers, her alarm clearly telegraphed to him. The guard’s neck exploded in gore and he fell to the platform.

Arthur was by her side, “Damn it! Are you hurt?!”

She was hurt. Pain seemed to overwhelm her senses, but she managed to shake her head, “Get the damn train…!” She gestured wildly with her good arm.

Arthur shook his head, “Can’t!”

“Don’t be a hero! Go uncouple the damn-!”

“I need your help!” he yelled. She saw he was serious. The whites of his eyes were earnest and urgent.

“Fuck!” Esther screamed. So much for an easy and convenient job. She growled, summoning strength from her reserves, and rose to her feet, stumbling as the blood seemed to rush from her head. “Alright then!”

Arthur climbed down onto the small lip of the carriage, and gestured for her to follow. Esther stared at the tiny, iron ladder in disbelief, and then the tracks whizzing by just past her view of Arthur’s head.

“Jump!” She heard Arthur say, and she knew there was no time. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to jump. She turned and shimmied down the ladder one-handed, hoping between rungs, and landed on the narrow platform with her daring cowboy, cursing her stupidity. She had wanted to play this smart and she was probably going to get killed for it. She felt the rumble of the wheels over the rails through the platform, only three feet wide.

Arthur took her good arm to get her attention, and pointed, “You see that iron bar?”

Esther looked. There was an inconspicuous iron bar that lanced across the side of the carriage. It didn’t seem connected to anything, just popped out from under the car and back again. She nodded.

“Go kick it down. You’ll have to kick hard, okay?” Arthur looked in her eyes, to see if she understood.

Esther, by way of answering, pulled out of his grip and leapt to the other platform. Carefully, she got down on her bottom, legs reaching under the carriage, and rested her boot against the iron bar, just slightly over the edge. She looked back at Arthur, who was climbing down between the rocking and swaying carriages. That couldn’t be safe. With his back against one platform and this boots against the other, he looked like he was about to try and push the two train cars apart. Well… Esther supposed that this was what he intended to do. He bounced dangerously with the swaying of the carriages, and the look in his eyes was wild. But when Arthur looked at Esther again, she saw there was steel there, and he nodded.

Esther huffed a deep breath, borrowing fury and strength from the pain in her arm, and kicked with all her might at the iron bar, and before she could think, kicked again. Something came loose, but she didn’t know what. She looked back at Arthur, who was now straining against the train cars, the buttons of his shirt straining in a way that would have been alluring if Esther’s arm didn’t hurt so badly and they both weren’t at serious risk of being crushed under a train.

She didn’t need to be told, but got to her feet and jumped back to the cargo train, joining Arthur without thinking in pushing the rest of the train away from their quarry. At first, it felt like nothing was happening, that they were still attached to the main locomotive and that they would pull into Annesberg Station like this.

Then, it felt like she needed to strain harder to reach the other platform, and before she realized the clamps had come lose Arthur was pulling her back. They watched the ‘C’ shapes of the clamps slide evenly past each other, and the oil spraying car with the dead guard seemed to drift away slowly, like in a dream.

Esther breathed, unable to believe they’d done it. She looked around. Still in the ravine, still undercover. It was unbelievable. She laughed out loud.

Arthur put a hand on her shoulder, “Not bad for your first train robbery,” he admitted.

“Shut up. We’re still not out of this mess yet. Fuck, my arm hurts.”

“Ever been shot before?”

“No. I’ve been stabbed, but not shot.”

Arthur looked at her sharply, “Stabbed?”

Oh, right. Esther kicked herself, trying to recover. Little maids don’t get stabbed. “I grew up in a rough part of town,” she said smoothly, but she couldn’t tell if Arthur bought it.

Without an engine, the three train cars seemed to rapidly run out of steam. The weight of whatever was inside acted against them, and the tension of the three cars made keeping the inertia difficult. Arthur examined Esther’s injured arm as the cars rolled to a stop, Charles and Lenny riding towards them from the opposite side of the ravine.

“Train’s still moving! It worked! It doesn’t seem to realize it left something behind,” Lenny laughed, then stopped when he saw Esther’s bloody sleeve.

“She’s alright,” Arthur said before he could ask what was wrong, “Guard popped up and surprised us, is all.”

Still, Esther wouldn’t mind some medical attention. It was only a graze, but it had burned a path along the top of her forearm that bled and charred at the same time. She needed to clean it. It was all too easy to get infections from burn wounds. But before that happened, they needed to get to safety. Christ, she had almost met her end tonight and she just had to move on to the next thing… but then, that was business as usual.

“Pop them open, maybe one of them has goods for us,” she told Charles and Lenny. “You too,” she said to Arthur, not looking at him, “I’ve got bandages on Cuez. I’ll be fine.”

She heard him stalk away and hop off the platform, his boots clattering against the rocks below. Esther allowed herself a moment to breathe. She’d just done a very stupid thing, and lived. This would be one for the diary, surely. The night’s breeze was cool against her face, and the sounds of the wilderness were slowly returning to her ears. Esther jumped down onto the ground, holding her arm close, and walked around to where the men were hauling open the first cargo carriage. Wooden boxes with hemp handles were stacked neatly inside. “Ammo?” Lenny asked. Arthur heaved himself inside, and took a look.

“Looks like it. Damn shame we didn’t bring a wagon.”

“Didn’t know we’d get a haul like this,” Charles breathed, regretful.

Lenny was already on the next wagon. He strained and pulled the rough-hewn wooden door open, revealing more wooden boxes, which he didn’t let Arthur peak at and rifled through himself. “Guns. Looks like old .45 rifles. Surplus. Hold on…” Lenny pulled out a gun from its hay, and walked over to them, “This one looks new.”

“What is it?” Esther asked, smelling something metallic and bitter. Leaning closer, she saw the gun was covered in grease. “Why is it icky?”

“It’s cosmoline,” Charles told her, handling the gun, “Keeps them from rusting. A bitch to get off though. They must not have been intending to use them very soon. And you’re right, Lenny,” Charles peered at the rifle, “This is a newer model. .30 caliber. This must be those new issues Bill heard the soldiers talking about in town.”

“We’ll keep a few for ourselves,” Arthur said, waving a hand, and walked to the last train car.

They hadn’t heard any noises coming from it. There weren’t any shouts in Spanish, or cries for help. Esther suddenly hoped that these people were still alive, if they were even in there. Arthur undid the latch and hauled it open.

“And behind door number three?” Lenny said into the night air, before they all got quiet.

Small eyes peered at them from the dark, seemingly frozen. The smell of human misery that Esther was coming to associate with slavery washed out over them, and her stomach rolled. These were kids. They were all kids, not one of them older than thirteen, and there must have been a dozen sitting on the wooden floor of the train car.

“Lenny, you got a lamp?” Arthur asked.

“Uh,” Lenny backed away slowly, stunned, “Yeah,” and he turned and ran back to the horses.

Esther and Charles stepped forward. The kids were burrowed into thick hides and woven mats, their black hair matted and filthy. They watched the strangers with dark, mistrustful eyes.

“They’re indians,” Esther breathed, “But why?”

Charles shook his head, and stalked away, radiating rage. His shoulders were tense, hands clenched into fists. Esther wanted to say something, wanted to ask him again, _why._ But she knew when not to speak. She turned back to the car train full of children, just as Lenny came back with a lamp that seemed to darken the night air around him.

“Hey, bring it over here,” Esther gestured. Lenny obediently set the lamp on the floor of the train car. The children seemed to shrink from it, from her, burrowing deeper into the soiled belongings they managed to keep.

“Do any of you speak English?” Esther asked, without hope. Even if they did, she doubted they would talk to her. She saw a little boy with nose covered in snot and eyes red from crying near the train door, and slowly she held a hand out to him. He looked to be about nine or ten, maybe David’s age. He stared at it, then at her. The message was clear. Esther slowly reached up and pulled down her bandana, pulled it off her neck, and mimed wiping her face. Then she offered it to the boy.

He slowly reached out and took it, using it to blow his nose and wipe his face. A little girl a few feet away from him said something in a language she didn’t understand, and the boy answered her. They looked at Esther at the same time, and she held up her hands, “I’m only trying to help,” which wasn’t encouraging, she knew, from a white person. She backed away from the train car to give them some privacy and to think. Shit. How the fuck was she going to get these kids to safety? Where was safety?

Arthur was leaning against the side of the train car, probably having already thought of these questions, and waited for her ultimatum. Esther looked away. Lenny piped up, “What should we do?”

“Charles?” Esther asked his back, “What should we do?”

Charles looked up at the night sky, and sighed, “We need to take them back to their families.”

“Do you know where that is?” Esther asked, at the same time Arthur grumbled, “How the hell do we do that?”

Esther shot him a look, and Arthur rolled his eyes, “We can’t just leave them in the woods, princess. And we can’t leave them to wait for those fuckers to come back.”

“These kids are probably from Wapiti. There’s a reservation up there,” Charles spoke softly, “And if they came from farther away, Wapiti will know where to take them.”

“Shit,” Lenny said softly, “This is bad.”

“Yeah,” Esther agreed. She whistled for Cuez, who had accidentally been commandeered for a much longer excursion than they thought.

She directed Lenny towards Ambarino and instructed him to find them a decent place to camp. The kids weren’t going to be able to walk all the way to Wapiti in the night, and as it happened, only a few of them seemed to have shoes. Charles could speak with a few of the children, who spoke the same language, but many of them did not. He convinced the kids that they were telling the truth in wanting to take them home, not that the kids had much of a choice, but it would help keep runaways to a minimum. At least, that’s what Esther hoped. Arthur wordlessly lifted the littlest ones, toddlers even younger than Jack, onto his horse. A young girl held them in place, watching him warily. He gave them the two chocolate bars he kept in his satchel, and she seemed to soften towards the man after that. Arthur’s horse, which Esther learned was named Grace, could hold three kids. Taima could also hold three. Cuezaltzin could hold four, which was a relief, because it meant only the four oldest kids had to walk with the adults. They started back on the road towards Ambarino, with minimal fuss. Esther suspected most of the kids had been cried-out a long time ago.

“Why?” Esther asked Charles again, a couple hours later. They had crossed the river and were headed into Grizzlies East. It was too dangerous to stay near the railroad.

Charles sighed, “They were on their way to be civilized.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hmph. White folks adopt Indian kids, give them their god and their clothes, give them Christian names and the English alphabet, and call them civilized. They think they’re indoctrinating the kids. Giving them a future, saving them from… Savagery. These kids were on their way to a boarding school to be taught how to speak English and all the good things an American knows how to do…” Charles stopped talking.

“And… I’m guessing they didn’t go willingly?”

“No,” Charles said bitterly. “It’s the government’s final effort to dissolve the tribes. The children are everything to a tribe, everything to a nation. If you take its children away, you take its future away, simple as that.”

Esther must have been getting tired, because it was hard to wrap her mind around that.

“Who would… Pay Bronte to take these kids, if they were just going to stick them in school?”

“Who do you think?” Charles grumbled, “Christians. They think they’re doing these kids a service. Bronte, or whoever, probably told them they were rescuing war orphans.”

Esther’s stomach rolled.

Lenny found them soon after, “There’s a place, not too far. It’s got good tree cover, and we can rest there for the night.”

By the time they found it, Esther felt she’d faint from fatigue. Between the adrenaline of the train robbery and the walking, she craved her bed. She could imagine falling into it and how soft and warm it would be. Esther felt her head bob. She’d almost fallen asleep while walking. But she couldn’t rest. Not yet. “I’ll get the horses water,” she told Arthur.

“No, you’ll sit your ass down,” he snapped at her, “We need to patch up your arm first.”

Esther didn’t have the energy to argue, and collapsed onto a fallen log, slowly sorting through her satchel to see if she’d packed bandages or whiskey like she thought. There were a few bandages, but no luck with the whiskey. Not to worry, Arthur was by her side with a rag and a bottle of moonshine.

“This’ll probably sting somethin’ fierce,” he told her, soaking the rag in the alcohol. She could smell it from where she sat. It stung the throat and made the eyes water.

Esther tried to pulled up her shirt sleeve with some difficulty – it was stiff with her blood, and had dried to the wound. Irritated, she began to unbutton her shirt.

“What’re you doin’?” There was a note of panic in Arthur’s voice, which made her laugh. She was tired and everything seemed far more hilarious than it was. Big scary outlaw afraid of the lady taking her shirt off.

“Don’t be afraid, cowboy, I can’t get my sleeve up. You won’t see anything that’ll threaten my honor anyways, don’t worry.” She had bound her chest, as was her standard practice, before leaving the Bronte Estate. She slowly shrugged out of the shirt, and then worked it away from her arm where the blood was still gooey and sticky against the fabric. It was nasty and painful, especially in doing it by herself. “Can’t give me a hand?” Esther said, panting. The forest around them was starting to spin.

Arthur stood over her and took the sleeve, slowly peeling it away as Esther sucked air through her teeth.

“Oh!” Esther heard Lenny gasp as he came around the horses, “Uh…”

“Ain’t what it looks like,” Esther groaned, eyes fluttering shut, “Just…”

“Give me a hand,” Arthur growled at him, and Lenny tentatively came forward, eyes avoiding Esther’s shirtless form. “She’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get this cleaned up. Go get a bucket of water from that creek we passed back there.”

“Yeah, sure Arthur,” Lenny said, quickly tramping off.

“That kid ain’t never seen a lady’s bare shoulders before?” Esther gasped as Arthur jerked and took the rest of the sleeve off in one smooth movement. It came away with a sickly sucking sound.

Arthur chuckled, “I don’t think that kid’s seen much at all before. He was sweet on a girl we, the gang, I mean, lost a while back, but I don’t know how far… I don’t know how handsy Jenny had let him be before she died.”

Esther didn’t know what to say to that, except to think that she would have personally hated to die without being handsy with a man she was sweet on. She raised her good hand and rested against it, elbow on her knee, “Poor kid.”

“Yeah. Now, this is gunna sting a little,” Arthur said, and sloshed some of the moonshine onto her open wound.

“Fuck!” Esther was suddenly awake, pain arching like lightning from her elbow to her ears, “Fuck, goddamn it, goddamn you, Arthur.” It wasn’t the heat of the bullet, but like stinging nettle, sharp and itchy.

“I been told worse,” Arthur said calmly, and started to wipe at the wound with the rag, cleaning the skin around it, “I think you’ll need stitches.”

“Fantastic,” Esther said through gritted teeth.

Arthur smiled, “I’m sure you’ve been told worse, too.”

Esther didn’t say anything, but hooked a thumb through the hole of the moonshine jug and lifted it to her mouth. It tasted awful, and her eyes started to water and her nose to run, but it hit her stomach like a calming fire, and she felt a little better for it. “You could say that,” Esther finally admitted quietly, after a moment had passed.

“What was the worse you’ve been given?” Arthur suddenly asked, “You said on the train you got stabbed before.”

Esther started, wary. He surely wasn’t as dumb as he looked. She was surprised that he even remembered that. “I… I don’t want to talk about that stuff.”

“Come on. I’ve seen your shoulders, now. Ain’t much more indecent you can be in front of me,” Arthur teased.

Esther huffed a laugh and took another swig of moonshine. Alright cowboy. If that’s what you feel. “Worst I ever got was after the women’s doctor, when I was twenty.”

“Women’s doctor?” Arthur prodded, concentrating on her arm.

“Yeah. I was foolish and got myself in a family way. I think the man would have taken care of me if I’d asked, but I didn’t want it. That life isn’t for me. My… My employer understood, hired out a doctor from Europe to come see me,” Esther noticed that Arthur’s rag had stilled on her arm, “He was a nice man. Took real good care of me. But those kinds of surgeries are always tricky, you know? It’s always a risk. Almost died, and afterward he told me I’d never have children of my own, which was fine by me, but Jesus, it hurt. And I was real lucky. I didn’t have to knock on any back alleyway doors or even pay for it myself.” Esther finally looked at Arthur, who was staring at her arm, not pretending to clean it, “Ain’t that wild, to think I was lucky? And I almost died. So that’s the worst I ever got. You?”

Arthur blinked, and continued to clean her arm, taking the jug from her and splashing it over her arm again, earning him hisses of pain.

“Are you judging me for it?” Esther asked against his silence. She didn’t care what the outlaw thought. She’d never regretted her decision. But the thought of Arthur sulking now, when they were just supposed to be trading stories back and forth, when she was tired and hurt, made her angry. Maybe the moonshine had made her share too much.

“Naw,” Arthur shook his head, still not looking at her, “Look at me. Look at my life. I ain’t in no position to judge.”

“I think you do so anyway,” Esther accused, “I think you’d thought I’d tell you about the time a man beat the shit out of me, or some other cute little woman story, or… or something,” Esther didn’t know where she was going with this, except she was hurt and mad now, in a real way. She looked away, “Whatever. It’s not like you’ve ever been put in that position. Men don’t know what it’s like to be helpless like that, and you get all judgey and high-and-mighty when you hear about it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Arthur’s voice was filled with iron, and Esther looked to see him glaring at her.

“I think I do,” Esther smiled cruelly, “Hypocrite.”

Arthur’s blue eyes went flinty, like when she called him by his full name in the guest bedroom of the mayor’s house. He gripped her wrist, “You think I ain’t never been hurt?”

“I think you don’t know what helplessness is.”

“You’re wrong,” Arthur told her, eyes growing more intense, “I know that anger after the fact. When somebody does something to you that you can’t help. How it works into your bones, even after you’ve killed the bastard that did it to you.” His eyes drilled into her, and Esther was momentarily stunned by the rage she saw there, “You’re so angry you think you’ll go insane. Because the worst part of it is that there’ll be no justice for it. It happens all the time, and it’ll keep happening.” Esther realized his voice had descended to a whisper. Her eyes never left his face. But she didn’t think he was talking to her anymore, that he’d been thinking about this a long time. Had he told this to anyone?

Esther didn’t really have friends, but then, some women didn’t have to be your friend to have these kinds of discussions. She remembered being at boarding school in Boston, sitting up late at night with the older girls, as they shared with each other the good and the bad that men did to them. She wondered at how similar Arthur sounded to some of them, the ones that described the bad, and for a moment Esther thought that men and women put up too many walls between each other.

“Part of you wants to grieve,” he said after a moment’s silence, “but the other part of you is afraid to. Because you know it’ll change you, and you’ve already changed so much, and you just want to hold on to what you were before.”

“I’m sorry,” Esther said, “I was wrong to say so.”

“You were,” he agreed, but there was none of the heat from before. He was tired too. He looked at her then, and Esther kept her face neutral. She didn’t want to show him pity or sympathy, only that she had been listening.

After a while, Lenny returned with a bucket of water, and they started a fire to start boiling it. Arthur found a medicine kit and started with the stitches, which also hurt but Esther kept quiet for. Charles had already settled the children in to sleep, and was sleeping himself to take the next watch. Lenny, where before he had been shy with his gaze, now openly stared at Esther while they cleaned and bandaged her arm. Arthur told him to get some rest, and he reluctantly slunk away to sleep.

“I’ll take first watch,” Arthur told her, and Esther was too exhausted to argue. She gingerly put her shirt back on, but not before soaking and scrubbing at the blood-soaked sleeve in the water pail. At least wet it would be easier to put on. Then she crawled onto Cuez’s blanket – someone had unsaddled him for her, probably Charles, and pulled the camp blanket over her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This mission is in partial reference to the reform-school Charles mentions in Chapter 4.  
> #  
> Native American children were being stolen from tribal nations well into the 1970s. https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/radiolabmoreperfect/episodes/more-perfect-presents-adoptive-couple-v-baby-girl  
> #  
> Did you know that the Janney train car coupler single-handedly saved thousands of men’s lives every year on the railroad? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Janney_coupler  
> #  
> Cosmoline was commonly used as a medical preservative until it was found that it also helped reduce rust. https://www.military.com/army-birthday/history-of-us-army-weapons.html  
> #  
> Arthur’s outburst at the end is a direct reference to his assault, which is a random encounter in the game. Fuck Rockstar for treating it like a fucking joke. Seriously. What the fuck. How fucked-up is it that someone needs to fucking write fan fiction for Arthur to acknowledge it? I hope the writer for that encounter wakes up with a spider in their underpants.


	8. After the Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an explicit chapter. While I know some rejoice, (I always rejoice) this ain’t what others signed up for, so if you want to skip someone’s very first attempt at a sex scene just read until you see the “###” then skip until you see the “###” again.

She woke when someone kicked her boots, “Rise and shine, princess.”

Esther felt like her whole body was one big knot. Her hips hurt from riding, her arm hurt from being shot, her head hurt from fatigue and the fact that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, her back hurt from sleeping on a horse blanket on cold rocky earth, and she felt that if her pistols had been nearby she would have shot Arthur out of sheer orneriness.

“Fuck you,” she croaked, and peeled the blanket away from her face.

“We’ve got coffee,” Lenny didn’t sound much better than she felt, which she appreciated. She turned her head to look, and he was stooped over a metal pitcher where something that probably passed for coffee, in a very loose, figurative sense, was being poured into tins.

She stood and felt her bones crack as her body righted itself on two legs and somehow managed to stumble over to the fire. Two of the kids were there, hands outstretched, feeling its warmth. They watched her warily, but seemed comfortable enough around Lenny from the way they inched toward him as she approached.

“Did they have breakfast?” Esther asked.

“We divided up some oatcakes, fruit, and some of the salted meat we found in your pack. Hope you don’t mind,” Arthur said as he walked by with a saddle in his arms.

Esther knew she shouldn’t mind, and if she had been awake of course she would have agreed to share food with the kids, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. “Of course,” was all she said, feeling the yawning emptiness of her own stomach, and accepted Lenny’s ‘coffee’ in a tin cup. Oh, if only Bronte could see her now. She tentatively drank, and found that it did, in fact, taste a bit like coffee.

“How much farther until Wapiti?” she asked Lenny, who shook his head.

“If we move out soon, we might get there tomorrow morning,” Charles had walked over to them, “Wapiti is far, over tough terrain, and these are kids. With Lenny here, we can get almost all of them on a horse, but that still means we’re walking.”

“Damn,” Esther shook her head, “And Bronte will know that his shipment wasn’t coming in. We can’t use the railroad to travel, we have to take the northern road.”

“We passed into Ambarino when we came over the hills, hopefully we won’t run into too many more people. This is real wild country,” Lenny intoned, as if remembering how another person described it.

Esther took another sip of the bitter bean water, and thought. “It’d sure be easier if we had a wagon.”

“We don’t want to attract any more attention,” Charles said, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, “But then, I don’t think a bunch of kids from Wapiti being hauled around by us is going to get suspicion off our backs.”

Esther nodded. She flexed her arm, which didn’t feel hot or exhibit swelling. Small miracles, she thought. It was just itchy as sin, “I could probably wrangle one up for us.”

“No,” Arthur came back, slinging his satchel over his shoulder, “I think Charles ought to go. You’re hurt already, I was getting shot at last night, Charles has the most experience.”

“He’s also the only one who can talk with the kids,” Esther pointed out.

“I’ll go,” Lenny visibly perked up, “I can get us a wagon.”

Esther turned to Arthur, “I get that you’re supposed to be in charge and all, Mr. Big Bad Outlaw, but Lenny is the best candidate. He’s the only one we can spare for a few hours.”

“Hey,” Lenny protested, “I will have you know I am also a Big Bad Outlaw.”

Esther smiled at him, “Of course. I would never say otherwise.”

Arthur threw up his hands without saying anything and walked over to Grace, “Hey, come on now,” and it took Esther a moment to realize he was yelling at the kids, “Time to go. Come on.”

The rag-tag band of children they were hauling around were already awake and staring at him dully, unimpressed with his gestures. Charles called something to one of the older ones, who reluctantly got up with the same attitude that was universal in all surly, tired 12-year-olds, and started pulling the younger ones to their feet.

Lenny was already on his horse, swinging a leg dramatically over the saddle, “You’ll see, Miss Esther, I’ll bring you back a fine stagecoach,” His grin injected a bit of humor into the morning.

Esther called back teasingly, “Don’t you dare come back with anything less.”

He rode off, and Esther turned to Cuez. His ears were low and his tail flicked irritably. “I know boy,” she whispered. She patted his nose, feeling the velvety skin and the whiskers there, “I know you’re tired. I’m tired too. But we got to get this done before we can go home, okay? And when we do you’ll get new hay in your stable and all the carrots you can eat, I promise.” His large eyes blinked down at her, his long lashes batting shyly like a lady’s.

“Come on, princess,” Arthur brought her a kid he held under the armpits, like it was dirty, “Let’s get a move on.”

“You jealous of a horse, now, Arthur?” She took the kid and helped him up onto Cuez’s back. He’d been saddled again since she’d been asleep. Was that Charles’ or Arthur’s doing? she wondered.

Back on the road, they started up the hills that Esther knew would eventually become mountains. She could already feel the blisters on her feet.

She managed to eat a bit of salted offal for breakfast, but as the sun went higher and the air got thinner, Esther knew that the main trick was going to be getting enough water for all of them. Her canteen had run out and they hadn’t come across any creeks or lakes yet. Charles didn’t think they were going to.

When Lenny rode over the crest of the hill with a covered wagon and a draft horse gamely trotting towards them, Esther felt dangerously close to crying with relief. Instead she shouted, “That’s not a stagecoach.”

Lenny snorted at her and pulled over, shaking his head, but smiling.

“Were you followed?” Arthur asked, leading Grace over to the wagon.

“Nah. And I managed to loop around, so the previous owner should be headed the wrong direction looking for us.”

“Smart,” Esther sighed, handing off the kids who seemed thrilled at the prospect of being able to sit rather than ride. One of the older girls quickly scrambled up next to Lenny before her friend could, and shot her a meaningful look. Lenny frowned, but the older girl ignored him, staring straight ahead with her chin held high.

They managed to fit eight kids on the wagon. That meant one riding with Esther, another riding with Charles, and the two eldest who could be trusted riding on Lenny’s Walker. Now that everyone had a horse, or at least a place to sit, the going was a bit quicker. She asked Charles if he still felt that they would reach Wapiti tomorrow morning, and he seemed thoughtful.

“No, now it’s more like the evening. Still. That’s a long ride without water, we best keep an eye out.”

Arthur, free from babysitting, ranged ahead as their scout. He would leave them for an hour and come back, checking on things, then ride ahead again. He seemed to have forgotten their conversation from last night, and that was fine by Esther. She regretting sharing what she did, realizing now in the daylight that he had no business knowing. But she didn’t… regret his confession. She didn’t _like_ that he knew what it was like to be attacked, but she also didn’t feel burdened or overcome by the shared knowledge. It didn’t seem to change her feelings towards him. She had really only known him as a man who was capable, sarcastic but dependable, unafraid of the sight of blood or children. 

The girl Esther guarded between her arms, no more than eight or nine, glanced back at Esther, then ahead.

“What?” Esther asked, quirking an eyebrow.

The girl looked again, her shirt two sizes too big and revealing one shoulder. Esther righted it, and looked back at the next ridge, where Arthur sat on Grace, waiting for them to catch up.

“You like him,” the girl said suddenly, and Esther tensed. Like him? Like who? Arthur? She had only noticed him sitting on the ridge. The white of Grace’s coat had caught her eyes.

“Didn’t know you could speak English,” Esther grumbled, dropping her eyes between Cuez’s ears now.

She giggled. It was the first time one of the kids had laughed in front of her.

“Why do you say I like him?” Esther asked, prodding.

“You keep looking for him. And then, when he’s there, you don’t look at him at all. You’re like Dancing Bear, you look and then you look away.”

“Who’s Dancing Bear?”

The little girl’s dark head pointed towards at the older girl sitting beside Lenny, then she turned and looked at Esther with eyes far too clever for one so young. She would have reminded Esther of David, except… Her eyes were not cruel like David’s. She hadn’t been hardened by the trauma she was handed, she had been sharpened, like a knife on a whetstone.

Esther muscled down the smile that wanted to appear on her face, and said firmly, “I am not like Dancing Bear.”

The girl spoke no more, but Esther was careful not to swivel her head as much and crane her neck at the road ahead. She didn’t want Lenny or Charles to get any ideas, though Lenny probably wouldn’t notice if a dynamite stick had been thrown into the back of the wagon, and Esther had a sneaking suspicion that nothing escaped Charles’ notice. If a kid at picked up on her looking, what had Charles seen?

Had Arthur noticed anything? Esther doubted it. He was too clever by half, but he didn’t seem to be looking at her any more than usual.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that her money was good and he was capable. That was all.

The girl didn’t speak up again until they arrived at Wapiti. As the smoke from campfires came into view, all of their steps sped up. Finally. _Finally_ some kind of resolution to this mess. When shelters could be seen through the trees several of the kids jumped down from the wagon and broke into a run.

It was quiet at first. The two men posted as lookouts seemed confused at the children suddenly mobbing the camp. Then, shouts rang out from the village. Older kids helped others down from Lenny’s horse, scrambling with frenzied hope. A woman sprinted to the kids and wrapped up a small boy in her arms, falling to her knees, clutching him to her chest as if she’d been mortally wounded. Her shoulders shook in big, shuddering sobs. More kids were reunited with family, though the girl that Esther carried did not seem in a hurry to get down from the horse.

Esther dismounted and reached for her, to help her down, which she grudgingly allowed.

“You’re family’s not here, is it?” Esther asked her, but the girl didn’t answer, and only walked to where a small crowd of adults were congregating. Charles and Lenny approached them, while Esther and Arthur hung back with their horses. Esther wondered if her parents would have reacted like that woman if they’d seen her again. She’d fantasized about it, of course, but now it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Her parents never came back for her after Bronte. She would have to come to terms with that someday.

Esther glanced at Arthur, “You gunna march up to them and demand thanks?” she poked.

He grimaced at her, patting Grace’s neck, “I don’t reckon so. Do you think the rest of those kids’ll get back to where they came from?”

Esther muttered something, an old saying her father – not Bronte, her real father – had dished out whenever things were too messy to ever be untangled.

“What’s’at mean?” Arthur asked, saddling up again.

Esther followed suit, “After the birds. Means it’s beyond our control.”

This was not their place. They wanted a bath and dinner, and they wanted to be gone. There were entreaties from the villagers for them to stay, but Charles gently extricated Lenny from the crowd of adults clamoring their thanks, sloppy with gratitude. These people had been taken from, again and again, so that when someone finally restored justice to them it came as a minor miracle.

They left the wagon behind, riding south to Bacchus Station. It seemed they were all headed back to Lemoyne, and they all wanted rest, with Valentine being the nearest settlement that didn’t creep back towards the wrong side of New Hanover, where a train robbery had taken place.

“You should ride with us,” Lenny offered, which made Esther smile and Arthur grimace.

“I think I will, if it’s all the same. It’s awful dangerous out on the roads for a lady, you know.”

By the time the group hit Valentine, it was on the wrong side of midnight. Esther paid extra for Cuez to be rubbed down and given some oats at the stable, and after a moment paid for the rest of the horses to have the same treatment.

“You done already paid us, Esther,” Arthur growled.

“It really isn’t necessary,” Charles agreed.

“I disagree,” Esther rubbed the small of her back, “Besides, it’s on the boss’s tab. Don’t worry about it. Please, ya’ll did me a good turn in helping get those kids back to Wapiti.”

“That doesn’t need paying for,” Charles grumbled.

“Maybe not,” Esther said, “But still. I appreciate it.”

All four of them staggered into the hotel, where the clerk’s eyes grew round. His glasses seemed to start to slip of the end of his nose, “Oh… My.”

“Got a room?” Arthur asked with all the hospitable nature of a snowstorm.

“Got two?” Esther coughed, eyeing the small panic that went into the man’s face as he eyed the Black man, the white man, and the man in-between, and then Esther, small and narrow between them, a dirty sleeve covered in dried blood.

“Yes, yes yes of course,” He seemed to shake himself and pulled down two keys.

“You can take the bed, kid,” Arthur slapped Lenny on the shoulder, “And all four of us will need a bath.”

“There’s only one bath,” The manager said firmly, as if they would possibly disagree with him on the amount of bathtubs the establishment offered. “You’ll have to take turns, but we can get fresh water in-between.”

“Sounds fine,” Charles said smoothly, “Esther, you paid for the stabling. You should go first.”

Instead of arguing, she just gave him a grateful look, “I always knew you were my favorite, Charles.”

“Hey,” Lenny objected playfully, and Arthur made a disgusted sound. It would appear that staying up late made him grouchy.

Esther smiled and waved her hand at them to go on, and started down the corridor to the single room with the word “bath” on a sign outside. She went in and locked the door, and as an extra precaution propped the chair that she found in there against the lock. She trusted Arthur and his friends, but she didn’t know who else was in the building.

The water was tepid, but the fire a few feet away kept it from freezing. She didn’t mind too much. The moment she was able to sink below the surface – careful to keep her injured arm slung over the side of the tub, she didn’t care. Grime and two days of hard riding slid off of her, and the water became murky. She added a bit of lye to the mix from the stand beside the tub, and sucked in air as it ate at her skin. She scratched at her scalp and between her toes, relishing in the feel of the dirt sloughing off. It was finer than any bath she’d had at Bronte’s estate, that was for sure, even if the tub was tin instead of porcelain and there weren’t any lavender sprigs to add to the water.

She stepped out and wrung out her hair back into the tub, quickly fanning it over her shoulders to speed along the drying process. She used a towel hung on a rack by the fire and didn’t inspect it too closely, afraid of what she might find, and slipped back into her filthy clothes. She hated doing that, but she didn’t bring an extra set – she hadn’t known she’d be gone this long. In the morning she’d go to the general store and buy clean ones for the journey back home.

She went upstairs to her room and knocked on the door where she heard the men’s voices, “Who’s up next?” she called.

“Me!” Lenny yanked the door open and didn’t even bother smiling before he was down the stairs, which was the most urgent Esther had seen him. She glanced back inside, to where Arthur sat on the chair and Charles was rising from his place on the floor, “I’m going to go see if the saloon will sell us something to eat. Want anything?” he asked Esther on his way out.

“Oh, uh, yeah, if the kitchen’s still open.” Charles nodded and disappeared, leaving Arthur and her alone. 

Charles had seen her looking. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind.

“Would you mind redoing the bandages on my arm?” Esther gestured with her good hand

Arthur shrugged and leaned over to pull more out of his satchel, “Sure.”

She crossed the room and sat cautiously on the bed, since there were no more chairs. Arthur eyed her, as if looking for a trick, then stood and pulled the rickety chair closer. He took out his hunting knife and started a tear in the fabric, and unraveled it quickly, all business.

Esther didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to lean into a man who didn’t seem to want her, but she had also never been shy. Why was she shy, all of a sudden? “You and Charles laying out bedrolls, then?”

“Yep. Beats sleeping outside.”

Esther didn’t know how much hardwood floors could improve over freezing earth, but she took his word for it. She didn’t often sleep outside. “You know… You could sleep with me, if the notion took you,” she shrugged, “Though you might leave Lenny lonely, I don’t know.” She smiled.

His stare was like ice, and it froze her heart in her throat, “Is this about what… What I said last night?”

“What?” Esther shook her head, momentarily confused, “No – I, Arthur I didn’t mean…”

“Never mind,” Arthur shook his head, agitated, looking like he wanted to say more but was too frustrated to articulate it properly. The pressure of the fresh wraps going around her arm hurt, “I’m sure you didn’t mean no harm.”

Esther opened her mouth and closed it, at a loss. But it felt awful to sit in the silence of his dismissive anger, “You don’t have to talk about it,” she finally said, “but don’t put on me whatever you’re carrying around. I don’t know what you thought I meant. I just like you, that’s all.”

Arthur paused a moment in wrapping, “Whatever I’m carrying around?”

“Yeah. That… doubt in people. I don’t deserve it.”

His laugh was mean and snide, “You think you’re the first lady’ who’s tried to fix me?”

Esther pulled her arm out of his grasp, suddenly furious, “I think I’m the first lady in a while who hasn’t. What on earth have I done, me,” She put a hand to her chest, fingernails digging into her own collarbone, “to make you think that’s what I wanted, huh?”

Arthur didn’t reply, just wore a sour expression on his face, like a child who’s had something taken away from them.

Esther snorted in disgust and stood, “Fine. I’ll ask Charles when he gets back,” She took the roll of bandages out of his hand before he could react and stomped out of the room, fiddling in her pocket to find her key. She opened the door and slammed it behind her, “Dumbass,” she growled, noticing that the bandages around her arm were starting to come undone. An ugly feeling coiled in her stomach. Was this guilt? She felt like she was too irritated for guilt. She threw the roll of bandages across her room, which arced in a tail of white. “Fucker,” she snapped at the long ribbon of cloth that she’d now have to wind up again.

If this were a hotel in Saint Denis she could have called for a bottle of whiskey to be brought up. Instead she settled for crawling out of her filthy pants and shirt in the low lamplight, sure to bring a gun to bed just in case. She wrapped bandages around her arm herself, which took some time, and wasn’t easy.

Just as she pulled back the threadbare quilt to finally settle in, and at least get some semblance of sleep, she heard a quick knock.

“Yeah?” Her pistol was in her hand in an instant, cocked and held down by her side, “Who is it?”

There was a heavy pause, then a voice whined. “Just let me in,” Arthur sounded exasperated, “I look like a fool standing out here.”

“You are a fool. Go back to bed,” Esther threw back. She didn’t want to deal with his bullshit. Not now. But she did. She liked him. Still. She had a little pride.

“Jus’ let me in, Esther, I’m sorry.” Her eyes tilted back into her skull.

She guffawed, “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

“No, but it was worth a shot.” She didn’t hear him leave, and after what felt like an objective eternity had passed, Esther padded forward in her stockings and underthings and cracked the door.

A blue eye peered at her in the lamplight, “Evenin’, princess.”

**###**

Esther scowled and tried to shut it, but Arthur was already through. She stumbled back, almost dropping her gun. Arthur used her surprise to twist it out of her hand.

“You expecting someone?” He carefully decocked it in front of her, and set it on the single chair her own room was equipped with. He stood between her and the weapon. She wanted something in her hand, something that would make her feel a little less naked.

“Lenny said he’d be by later,” she sneered.

“Lenny is sound asleep,” Arthur whispered back, eyes roving over her, “And Charles ain’t back yet.” He took a step closer, “Looks like you’re on your lonesome.”

Esther flushed, pissed and feeling vulnerable, and pissed she was feeling vulnerable, “You’re awful eager all of a sudden.” She didn’t take a step back when he took another step towards her, now close enough he could put a hand on her. But he didn’t. He just looked at her.

“I got to thinkin’…”

“Yeah?” Esther asked, realizing that her head had tilted up to his instinctually.

“Got tired of thinkin’,” Arthur’s voice was low and full of purpose.

“Don’t start anything you’re not willing to finish,” Esther told him.

He reached out and took her throat in his hand and pulled her to him, mouth greedy on hers, cracked lips on her own and hungry. His hand was warm, and his mouth tasted of alcohol. Was he drinking before or after she saw him earlier? That would make sense.

Esther leaned into him, feeling the rush of blood to her legs and feet. Heat she didn’t realize was there was blooming in her chest. Her hands clawed at the buttons on his shirt, while his other hand snaked up and grabbed a handful of her still-damp hair. He didn’t try to stick his tongue down her throat, but the kisses certainly weren’t chaste. They delved and sought and prodded. Where on earth had a cowboy learned to kiss like this?

She pulled up his shirt to get at the last of the bottons, but as she did so he pushed her back onto the bed. His weight held her down effortlessly, his hand on her neck like a pin through a butterfly. Esther could feel her pulse in her ears, her body feeling brittle with nerves and need. She wanted the cowboy something fierce. The bedframe creaked as he climbed on top of her. Her hands went lower. Two belts, the gun belt and the other belt. Jesus, why did he come wearing so many?

He reached behind himself and pulled down her undergarments, planting another hand on her stomach and rubbing his fingers and palm up to wear her chest was still bound.

“Fuck this,” he croaked, and pulled out his hunting knife again.

“Don’t you dare,” She snapped, but he’d already expertly plucked out a strand and cut it loose, the rest quickly following. She cursed him, “Do you know how long that takes to wrap?” He threw the knife down onto the floor. It clattered loudly in the quiet hotel.

“I don’t care,” Arthur’s tone was nonchalant but his eyes were hungry, and he bent over and laved his tongue over her neck while his two hands came up and palmed at her soft breasts. Esther gasped, surprised at the sensation, the callouses feeling strange on those tender parts. Her fingers found purchase, and the gun belt clattered to the floor. At the sound he pulled back, hand placed in the middle of her chest.

“You certain you want this?” His voice was husky and strained, “I can pick my shit back up and go.”

“I said,” Esther drew her nails up his thighs, and she knew even through the fabric of his jeans the sensation was maddening, “Don’t start anything you can’t finish.”

“Fuck,” he growled and started undoing his own pants, fingers dragging at the buttons.

Esther felt her core ache at his frenetic gestures, his eagerness spurring her on. By the time he worked himself out of his pants Esther had licked her palm and seized him, moving slowly but firmly in the way she knew the aristocrats of Saint Denis liked best.

Arthur sucked air through his teeth. So outlaws and rich men alike had that special spot. He leaked, and her stomach tightened painfully. Esther itched to please him, itched to have him please her. She wanted his hands on her, all over her, leaving marks.

“You want to cum on my tits?” Esther asked suddenly.

“Esther!”

“What?” She whispered back, laughing, “Don’t you like my tits?”

“You nasty bitch,” Arthur’s voice was smoky, but he said it with a smile. He leaned over her with hands planted on either side of her head, eyes half-closed, while she pumped him, “Ima need to… ta-to learn you how to speak to a gentleman…”

Esther leaned up while her hands still worked him and planted a soft, gentle kiss, “You’re no gentleman.”

Arthur seemed to animate then, rearing up and pulling his shirt the rest of the way over his head. He rolled off the bed and out of her hands, tearing away where he’d pulled her underpants. Esther drank him in, his shoulders and the hair that grew in a line from his chest down to his hips, the pale skin of his arms against the darker tan around his neck. His hand circled around her ankle and pulled her to him, quickly licking his fingers and applying them between her legs as if he did this every day. Pleasure slammed into her, and Esther’s eyes rolled back into her head. A soft moan forced its way past her lips. She wasn’t any lily flower, new to trysts or to sex, but god his fingers felt good.

“You’re no lady,” Arthur told her. His voice had a frayed edge. She felt a hand creep up her stomach again as his other fingers became occupied. It crept between her breasts, caressing her throat and then swiping a thumb over her lips, warm and gentle, asking permission. It felt very nice. Esther was starting to understand the $5,000 bounty on the cowboy. It was almost overwhelming. She opened her mouth and sucked the skin between his thumb and forefinger, working her tongue over it, tasting the sweat of the day, then dragging her teeth like it was an orange slice she wanted to strip of meat. She heard Arthur gasp. Slowly, the other hand hard at work, he dipped his fingers into her mouth. She accepted them, tasting the salt and the dirt on them, and not minding. The promise there was filthy and heady. His eyes were intense, mouth parted at the sight of her. Her brain starting to buzz with whatever drug Arthur had on him. It made her head spin, whatever it was. Esther wanted that dirty, intimate part of him. She held his wrist with one hand and grabbed at the sheets with the other.

She wanted more, and jerked her pelvis against his hand by way of asking, since his middle and forefinger now rolled themselves down her tongue. He pulled his hand out of her mouth and seized her throat again, keeping her steady, while his wicked hand sought deeper. “Lord, you’re so wet for me.” Esther could only nod, past all jokes and teasing.

The fingers withdrew. She whimpered in their absence, but was rewarded with something more substantial pressed up against her. He swiped fingers around her core again, then pumped himself once, twice, spreading her arousal around to make it easier. The act was so carnal that watching it made her insides twitch. Then he was slowly pressing into her, his hand going back to her clit and working it again as he sank down. The sensation made her chest feel tight.

“Fuck,” Esther gasped, feeling the blood pound behind her ears.

“Yeah, you’re no lady, talking like that,” Arthur said almost absently, still pushing. Jesus, he really was going to attempt to split her in half. She wrapped her legs around his hips, hooking her ankles around his backside. He stood at the edge of the bed, eyes running over her while he pushed into her heat. He let go of her throat and held her hips while he began his first thrusts, hilting in her quickly. Esther gasped, her hands suddenly gripping his forearms. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, his arms, Esther thought, _I wish there were two more sets, with two more of him._ The thought of three of him at once forced her eyes shut, and her back arched, begging him to find deeper purchase.

His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, the obscene sound of flesh against flesh filling the room, paired with the soft moans from both of them. She could feel a weight pulling at her center, threatening to pull her under, “Arthur,” she whimpered.

He seemed to sense what she meant, and pulled out. She gasped, the sudden absence painful and anti-climatic. The weight eased somewhat, but it was there again when he took her legs and flipped her over, his weight once again settling against her. “Now I’m done being nice to you,” he whispered in her ear, chin nuzzling the back of her neck. His bare chest was hot and sticky against her shoulders. He threaded a hand through her hair and pushed her farther up the bed. She complied, and complied again when his hands pushed her legs farther apart. She felt him enter from behind, the feeling new and not quite so direct as before. His grip on her hair did not ease, but instead pulled her back to his chest, forcing her to grip his hips for balance. Then Arthur started to move again, one hand holding her head in place while the other distractedly rubbed her side, like she was an animal to calm, “Fuck, you’re so pretty right now, woman.” His breath was hot and erotic in her ear, his tongue dipping to outline her jaw then kissing her neck. His need sent a stab of excitement through her, and Arthur gasped as he felt her clamp down.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Esther rasped.

Her head was suddenly in the bed, held there by a vice-like grip. Arthur complied, pounding into her in a way that neither of them could sustain for long, and with every thrust they both collapsed farther onto the old quilt, Esther arching her back to feel more of him while Arthur buried his face against her neck, tongue against the nape. All of the muscles in Esther’s back contracted. She had no idea so many nerve endings rested at the top of her spine, but she could feel each and every one of them now, drawn taught by the feeling of this man’s tongue. The gentle part of the affair was over. The weight at her center pulled at her suddenly, hard, and she moaned again, her right hand scrambling for purchase on the bedsheets while her left went up and pulled at Arthur’s short hair. The sounds he made were obscene and absolutely intoxicating. To have him so close, with his breath mixing with her breath, made her excited in a way she could not quite describe. She wanted to cleave herself open and let him walk through her, like a doorframe, like curtains, just so she could feel the whole of him. In the morning she would think it an embarrassing and macabre thought, but there in the cheap hotel room she wanted nothing more than to feel every bit of him on her.

“Shit, I’m going to cum,” Arthur groaned, hips losing their rhythm.

Esther said the first thing that came into her head, “Please, please Arthur,” Esther choked, suddenly overwrought with her own climax. It crashed down on her and seemed to squeeze the breath from her lungs, so she couldn’t even scream, like she wanted to. It roared in her ears and shook her core, pleasure so fierce and keen she couldn’t find breath. Everything within her had been so coiled and tight before, and fearsome pleasure bloomed and wiped that control away. She thought she would pass out, and thought that if she died she would die a happy woman. Arthur let out a broken moan into her hair, a noise she would have to file away for later, his thrusts jittery and halting. It was hard to believe that a man like him could make such a tender noise.

He collapsed, breathing hard. Esther blinked, her stomach twitching under them both as the pleasure ebbed.

For a moment, neither spoke, though Arthur propped himself up on his elbows so he wasn’t crushing her. She could feel his warmth dripping down her thighs. He rested his forehead against Esther’s shoulder, and she could feel the sweat cooling there, his steady breath against her back. It was a moment of peace between them, in perfect understanding and appreciation, and Esther wished that these moments could be cast in amber. It was nice. Alas, it was not to be.

Arthur slowly rose, sliding out of her with a small gasp and onto his side, “So,” he said softly, “how much do I owe you?”

Esther turned her head slowly to stare at him, but his face remained neutral. “I hate you,” she breathed softly, and Arthur’s eyes crinkled in mirth. “Can’t leave a good thing be.”

“What good thing? This good thing?” He reached out and pulled her into his arms, despite her struggling. “Come on now, princess. Ain’t no good things among folk like us.”

“What a charming thing to say,” her voice dripping with sarcasm, “No, let me go! I’m cold now, I want to get under the covers.”

He let her part from him long enough to get comfortable under the fraying quilt, then threw an arm over her, “You always this friendly with your business partners?”

Esther stopped fussing, and looked at him with wide eyes, “Business partners?”

Arthur quirked his eyebrows together, smile still on his face but growing confused.

“Business partners? That’s all I am to you? You mean… we aren’t getting married?” Esther whined, face the picture of broken-hearted comprehension.

Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled his arm back, “You’re something else.”

“But, I gave myself to you?!” She moaned pitifully, “Oh, Mr. Morgan, you’ve ruined me.”

“You ruin everything,” he snapped and rolled onto his back.

She threw her head back and cackled, full-throated and full of jolly. It had been a genuinely good fuck, and she was feeling generous. She moved closer to him, and put her forehead against his shoulder, “You should go take a bath. You stink. I’ll be here when you get back.”

For a moment, this thumbnail dragged gently down her arm, raising goosebumps. There it was again, a perfect moment. Maybe less of a series of moments than a glimpse of what could be? Esther wondered if he felt it too. She wondered at her lack of panic of confronting moments like these, that seem so full of promise. She had no business messing around with an outlaw who couldn’t go a day without making trouble in her city. Was this smart?

Arthur sighed and sat up, pulling up the pants that had worked themselves around his knees without being taken off, “Li’ble to wake up missing my cock, sleeping with you. Think I’ll take my chances on the floor.” Despite his words, his tone was light and teasing. Looking around, he used a corner of the bedsheet to clean himself up. Then he stood.

Esther turned to him, watching him pick up his shirt, “I’d like you to sleep with me. I promise I won’t touch your cock unless you beg me to.”

“You’ll break poor Lenny’s heart,” Arthur chuckled.

“I think he’ll survive,” Esther said, but thought that he might have a point. She didn’t think things had gone so far it would cause true hurt feelings, but she thought it’d be a simple enough thing to avoid. That is, if he hadn’t picked up on Arthur and her already. Not that what Arthur and she had was all that serious. There was a mutual attraction there, and no real reason to hold back, that’s all.

Esther sat back in bed and watched the outlaw collect his shirt and tug it back over his head, enjoying how his stomach and ribs stretched before disappearing under the button-down. He picked up his gun belt and buckled it back on, “I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

“Okay,” she still watched him through half-lidded eyes, her legs aching, “I’ll see you then.”

He glanced at her once before stepping out the door, a little bit of orneriness still there. She liked that. It put a little heat into her stomach. Then he was gone, and Esther was left alone in the bed growing colder by the minute.

**###**

In the morning Arthur and Esther greeted each other on the front walk of the hotel as if nothing had happened last night, which took the form of Arthur making a remark about beauty sleep that fell flat and Esther ignoring it. Charles’ sharp eyes slid between their blank, innocent faces, and grunted.

“Next train won’t be for an hour,” he said evenly, deciding against commenting on it, much to Esther’s relief.

Lenny, sitting a little away on the stoop, yawned and scrubbed his face, “Can we get some coffee? My head’s killing me. Think I’m still tired.” He leaned against a post, watching a wagon full of giggling young women roll by.

“I’m going to pick up some fresh clothes at the general store,” Esther shrugged on her satchel. “I need to be presentable for a meeting in Rhodes. Can I get you boys anything?”

“I’ll take a bottle of whiskey,” Arthur grumbled.

Esther rolled her eyes, “Anything you _need_ , I mean?”

“Fine, I’ll get my own whiskey.”

“If you can get me a wool camp blanket I’d appreciate it, I think I gave mine to one of the kids,” Charles said.

“Of course. Lenny?”

“Something to eat for the road?” he asked, scratching his neck, “But I think I’m going to head to the saloon and see if they have something better than dry biscuits.”

Esther nodded and stepped into the muddy street, her boots making slurping noises as she set off. She heard a larger set of slurping noises follow behind her, and knew Arthur was coming along. She glanced back with a quirked eyebrow and caught Lenny glancing after them, a wry smile on his face. He caught her look, gave her a smirk she couldn’t quite decipher, and turned to follow Charles on his way to the saloon. She turned back around, not quite sure what to make of it.

Esther opened the door to the shop and held it open for Arthur. He thanked her with a dip of his hat.

“Mornin’,” the clerk called, “How can I help you?”

“What kind of clothes do you have on hand? I’m traveling and need new britches.”

He eyed her a bit skeptically, mustache twitching in what might have been a frown or a smile but was hidden from her view, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a… more feminine attire, ma’am? I have a decent selection of dresses.”

“No, thank you,” she waved it away, “I’ll just get it dirty, where I’m going. Your shirts and pants, please.”

The clerk shrugged and pulled out a stack of western shirts and then denim pants, “I’m afraid I haven’t bought any in women’s sizes. Bit of an unusual request, you see.”

Esther could hear Arthur clomping around behind her, peering at the hard liquor selection, “I understand. You have any boy’s sizes?”

The clerk raised his eyebrows, looked her up and down again, and nodded carefully, “I might have something. Let me go check.”

He disappeared into the back and she carefully looked through the shirts, settling on a red pinstriped button-down that she thought might complement her hair. She also saw a stack of soaps on the counter, and brought one up to her nose. Smelt fine. She added that to her pile.

“Where you goin’, that you’ll get it all dirty?” Arthur asked, finally making a selection and grabbing a bag of candy too.

“Rhodes,” Esther said evenly, “Got business there.”

“For your employer?”

“Yes,” She lifted her head to look at him. _What of it?_

Arthur set the whiskey and candy beside her on the counter, and she pointedly moved it away, “You still don’t trust me?”

“I know when to keep my mouth shut,” Esther whispered, putting more iron into her tone, “Unlike some people.”

“I know how to keep a secret,” he whispered back, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He thought this was a joke. Her little woman’s secret. If only he knew… No, that would be a very bad idea.

Esther fought down the irritation. Just because they… got to know one another better didn’t mean that he understood her any better. The clerk came back in with another set of pants and shirts, “These are all we got.”

“I appreciate it. Could you also bring out your wool blankets?” The clerk told her that wouldn’t be a problem and disappeared into the back again. “Go pick out something for Lenny,” she told Arthur, “or something for all of you.”

Arthur made a face mocking her seriousness and walked over to the packaged goods as Esther held up a dirty brown-colored pair of pants that were designed to hide dirt, and decided that the brown and red weren’t too hideous put together. The clerk came out with a bundle of blankets and she picked a darker, plain one that Charles would’ve probably picked, and asked to pay. The clerk cast an appraising eye over the goods, “Looks like it’ll be about fifteen dollars,” and he looked to Arthur, who’d just returned with a box of crackers and dried meat. “Sixteen… eh.. seventy-five.”

Esther placed three crisp bills in front of him from her satchel, and the clerk’s mustache twitched, but didn’t make a comment.

It wasn’t until she was outside with her things that she turned to Arthur, “Did I buy your whiskey?”

“You did,” he laughed, and she cursed.

“You’re a leech, Mr. Morgan.”

“I’m an opportunist,” he said nonchalantly, with the air of a man who’s heard it many times and liked the way it sounded.

“Your daddy teach you that?” she snapped, and the teasing smile on his face disappeared.

Arthur’s face lost a bit of its lightness as he said, “No.”

Esther sighed through her nose. She couldn’t keep out of his minefield, could she? “Well, then who did? Sounds like bullshit to me.”

He smiled again, back to being easy and puckish at the flip of a switch. Esther noted that. “Dutch, of course. And Hosea. Hosea’d like you, you got your head on straight.”

“And Dutch?”

Arthur pursed his lips as they walked inside of the saloon, “I… think he’d like how pretty you are.” That made Esther laugh, for some reason.

“Arthur, Esther!” Lenny called, waving a hand from a table against the far wall. Charles nodded at them as they walked over, and Esther noted the four cups of steaming coffee and momentarily berated herself for not having slept with Charles instead. However, she wasn’t totally sure Charles would like her, or be open to her, in _that_ way. She handed him his blanket, which he rubbed with his hands approvingly. Arthur handed Lenny the crackers and meat.

“I’m going to change in the WC, don’t mind me,” Esther picked up her new clothes and waved off Charles’ offer to get her breakfast as well. “I’ll be fine.

With the new cloth on her skin, she felt a little better. She tossed the old clothes into the privy pit, since they were of no use to anyone, and stepped out.

On the train, horses in a cargo car, Arthur sat beside her while Lenny and Charles sat across from them. Lenny had commandeered Charles’ blanket to use as a pillow against the window, and he snored gently as the train swayed back and forth. Esther had her arms folded around her chest, fatigue still pressing at the back of her eyes, and stared out the window at the quickly passing landscape. They’d gotten away with two jobs now, seemingly with out a hitch. She’d stolen from Bronte twice, and hadn’t been detected. Was it luck? She was inclined to believe it was. But then, if she had been working for Bronte and not working for herself, would she have called it luck?

She was shaken out of her thoughts when a hand momentarily blocked the sun as it passed over her. It came to rest on the other side, arm fitting snuggly against her shoulders. She looked at the hand as if it were a foreign object, then she slowly turned her head to look at Arthur. His face was a careful arrangement of careless and bored. She turned to look at Charles, who had momentarily put down the book he’d been trying to read the whole trip, and met her eyes with a shrug. His lips twitched in a smile.

She shook her head and turned back to the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Press “X” to make a move.   
> #  
> Arthur Morgan back at camp, talking about Esther like: https://imgur.com/a/gSFIJTJ


	9. The Best Laid Schemes

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!

  * Robert Burns, “To a Mouse”



#

_Your donation to our humble church has seen new cooks hired and menus made, along with substantial new additions to our pauper’s wardrobe. I can only assume your last mission went successfully. My source tells me that there are more grumblings in the disgusting business than there was before, now that they know someone is attempting to break the trade. And yet, I need your help once again. The docks are preparing dozens of lost souls for Guarma, set to depart in the week. I hope you can reach them in time. I wish you and our friend the best of luck._

_BD_

#

_Dear Mr. Kilgore,_

_I know I haven’t sent word in a fortnight, and I apologize. My supervisor had been put under new pressure, and I’ve been busy ensuring our business partnership can continue. I hope you haven’t forgotten about your friend, Esther. My brother, Dorkins, certainly hasn’t._

_I’m afraid he needs our help once again, and this time the quarry isn’t swift and isolated. It is a large, sleeping giant. After careful consideration, I once again ask you bring friends, more of them, but perhaps not ones so principled. Meet me at the stables of Saint Denis a little after sundown on Friday. We’ll discuss horses._

_Do say hello to Charlie and Leonard for me, I was sad to see them off at Rhodes. Ask the postman for the last two week’s payment, he knows my credit is good._

_Your partner in business,_

_Esther_

#

The new stills in Rhodes were coming along nicely. The Black community there were hard and careful workers, and they had managed to set up a fully-functioning operation in a few weeks. Esther was impressed, and pleased she could return to Saint Denis to tell Bronte their moonshine operation was ready to start producing. Only a month had passed since the destruction of the Braithwaite property, and they were already positioned to make a strong re-entry into the market. She’d need to send to Guido and make sure he could provide guards to the new stills to ensure none of the whites in town decided to take the moonshine business back. She wanted a message sent that these workers were under Saint Denis protection, and she wanted the workers to see that Bronte rewarded work well done. That _she_ rewarded work.

The fact that Bronte had an illicit side-business he hadn’t told her about, and that it was slaving, was proof to her that she could not trust her mentor. He certainly didn’t trust _her_. Perhaps it was time that this mistrust was brought out into the open. The thought alone was enough to make Esther’s heart thump uncomfortably hard in her chest. She reminded herself that she had been groomed for rule since she was taken in as a child… but there is a difference between preparing and doing. Esther practically ran half the business anyway, with Bronte only taking care of the largest accounts, the racketeering and the police… but that was two spheres that Esther had little experience in, and they were very, very important to control if she wanted to have this city for her own.

She remembered all the lessons of her classic schooling, all the time spent on philosophy and military strategy. The rules of coups were simple: In order to control the people who had the guns, you needed to control how they were paid. It took no particular talent. However, it was easier said than done. Right now, the police of Saint Denis knew that their bribes, their bread and butter, came from Bronte, not Esther. That was a problem. Bronte controlled the account books for the racketeering, the biggest money-making scheme in the city, and he controlled the account books for the bribes to the police. For the first time, Esther realized that this might not be an accident. It was a problem. A huge problem. If Esther wanted the city, she’d need to take drastic measures to correct it.

Did she want the city that badly?

Here is what Esther wrestled with herself, day-in, day-out. She was a creature of ambition, who lived for her work, who was good at her job. Work was how she rested the anxiety-ridden part of her brain that nagged and tore. There was a hard, coiled thing at the center of her where most people had a heart, and the only way she could put it to work was through _this_ work… She could try to go clean, and follow the law, and do all of those things, but to do that would mean forfeiting her freedom and her nature. She would need to marry, because if a woman wanted to have any social standing at all, she would need to marry. But if she married, she wouldn’t be able to have her own bank account, own her property, sell it as she pleased. Forget _voting,_ she wasn’t even allowed to speculate. She couldn’t imagine asking a man for permission to sell her own railroad shares.

And she would go insane with boredom. Whatever God had built her had shaped her to thrive in this chaos. This was where she did what she did best.

So she supposed she _did_ want it for her own. She craved not only the easy luxury of the position, the baths and the soft beds and new clothes, but the challenges. She liked the back alley meetings and dressing up and meeting people from every walk of life united in an unjust and materialistic cause.

Esther had been resolved as she arrived back in Saint Denis, taking Cuez to the stables and immediately returning to the mansion for a bath. After dousing herself in hot water with spruce and lavender, drying on fine Egyptian cotton, and slipping easily into an everyday dress in the latest London fashion, she felt some semblance of human again. She thought of Arthur as she did so. He’d probably go to whatever was the nearest body of water – a cow pond, a creek – to take a bath, jumping into clothes washed against rocks weeks earlier.

For a moment, she pictured him walking through her door, covered in mud, and fucking her until she was filthy again, then shook the daydream out of her head. “Get it together,” she muttered to herself, running a brush with inlaid pearl through her hair.

“Ma’am,” the voice of a maid surprised her.

Esther jumped a little as she turned, to which the maid apologized quickly and curtsied. “No, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Did you need something, Emma?”

“Signor Bronte would like a word, madam,” her face was serious as she said it, despite her best efforts to keep the urgency out of her tone.

Esther immediately laid the brush down and got up, “What’s wrong?”

“I… It’s best if you go see him now, madam,” Emma dipped her head.

Esther went quickly down the stairs, and heard shouting before she even rounded the corner. “-It’s a disgrace! I should have you thrown out into the street!”

“What on earth is going on?” Esther called, half-running into the room. She took in the scene. A henchman was cowering before Bronte’s desk, a vase had crashed to the floor, white shards were everywhere, and Bronte was glaring while seated in his fine leather chair.

He brightened at her entry, but it was brittle and false, “Esther, my sweet magnolia. Finally, someone competent.” His words dripped venom. Someone had fucked up.

Esther met the henchman’s eyes, some young man she didn’t recognize, and he dropped her gaze immediately.

“What happened?” She asked again, moving farther into the room and nudging the broken vase with the toe of her boot, “And why have you thrown a hundred-dollar piece of art to the floor?”

Bronte sighed dramatically, “I am surrounded by idiots.” He turned to Esther, _It’s your cowboys,_ he said in Italian.

_My cowboys?_ Esther asked, quirking an eyebrow and looking surprised. Esther was a very good liar, but even she felt an icy hand seize her heart and give it a little squeeze. What did he know? What could he possibly know? They’d left no witnesses…

_Yes, the dirty little shits you tried to warn me about,_ he shook his head, disgusted, though Esther thought it probably had to do more with himself. “They’ve been stealing from me.”

Now her surprise was real. Was he going to admit he’d been slaving, without telling her?

He saw the surprise on her face, “I know,” he growled. “Two nights ago they stole guns from me, on a train coming from the godforsaken mountains.” Bronte was an excellent liar too. Esther remembered the boxes and boxes of guns, new and old, covered in the smelly grease. He waved his hand in exasperation, “They mock me.”

“I won’t say I told you so,” Esther shrugged, and gestured for the henchman to leave them. His face flushed with relief, and he scurried out without glancing back. “We shouldn’t have underestimated them.”

Bronte huffed, “Please, gloat all you want, I deserve it. I was a fool.” He dug for a cigar in his desk, found it, and cut off the tip with particular vigor, “But now, we must plan, yes?”

Esther moved to her usual spot by the window, “You think they’ll strike again?”

“I think they’ve gotten a taste of real money, and they want to put their dirty, grubby little hands all over it.” His tone was full of venom and spite. “I want you to make sure they don’t bother us again.”

Esther turned to him, “Of course. But I would exercise caution. We’ve seen what they can do to people who try to hurt them and fail.”

“Then don’t fail,” Bronte huffed hungrily at his cigar, “They have grown to displease me. I want them gone.”

“Dead?” Esther asked. Her tone was light, but it was difficult, so difficult… moreso than it should be. What was wrong with her?

Bronte waved his hand, “What else? Should I invite them to drink? Am I to sit and stew about their insults then invite them over for dinner? Ha! I have to do that enough with Lemieux.”

“Even Jack?” Now she smiled sweetly.

Bronte glanced at her and a real smile spread over his features. He pointed his cigar at her, “Good point. Ah, my sweet magnolia, always two steps ahead,” he came over to her, “No, not Jack. We can raise him up to be a proper gentleman. Maybe someone to share your inheritance, if you don’t manage to kill each other in the next twenty years.” He stood beside her and smoked.

* * *

That was two weeks ago. She hadn’t dared write to Arthur or send him his pay. She’d worked constantly to figure out what Bronte knew while making it seem she was still trying to find a way to track the gang down. From what she could find out, it seems that while he knew the cowboys had something to do with it – it must have been the pawnshop owner complaining, followed by the subsequent incidents – he didn’t seem to know how they were getting their information or Esther’s role. Luckily, it seems Arthur had listened to her and the Van der Linde gang held off on hitting the trolley station.

But now Brother Dorkins had sent her another note. For a moment, she considered ignoring it. That would be the smart thing to do. Bronte was far too close to smelling out her plan. It would be better if she let this shipment through, to throw him off. Esther also knew that would be condemning God-knew how many people to death. That was hard to stomach. What was wrong with her? This shouldn’t be a decision she struggled over. She’d always done the smart thing, the thing that kept her alive. But she had had fun with Charles and Lenny and Arthur, and they hadn’t asked her to do ugly deeds. She’d gotten a little taste of what it might be like to live with a clean conscious, and she wanted it, she wanted it badly.

Arthur did bad things, his entire gang had earned those warrants and wanted posters, but she had to admit that there was something romantic about operating outside of the confines of bureaucracy. But that was silly. Their sins were just as bad as hers, they just stared at them in the face.

She couldn’t let the shipment of people go. She had to put a stop to this whole thing, and soon. She needed a plan to gain the racketeering books, or at least… remove it from the equation. So she wrote to Arthur, and hoped he would show.

Behind the Saint Denis stables, she wore comfortable hunting boots and dark breeches, a dark shirt and cotton vest, with her hair tucked up underneath a cap. At a glance, she could pass for a young man, provided the viewer didn’t look at her with sober eyes or within a few yards. That was fine. She didn’t plan on being seen tonight. She also hid her hands in leather gloves, though they felt hot and clammy inside them, like sausages, but the last thing she needed was to have her pale fingers attracting attention or to cut herself as she scrabbled up the side of a building.

She leaned against a crate and smoked a cigar while she waited, though Esther wasn’t partial to them. Still, it looked better to be doing something other than sitting in a back alley doing nothing. Around her, the sounds of Saint Denis at night pressed in: The barking of dogs and the shouts of drunks and the sharp clip-clops of hooves on pavement and the rattle of wheels. She checked her pocket watch. The sun had set an hour ago, and Arthur still was not here. Was he sour over her not writing to him for two weeks? No, Esther thought. He was a grown man. At least, she hoped that sort of sulking was beneath him. She had seen older men behave in such a way with a young woman before, but they had always been monied lay-abouts with nothing better to do than sulk. Arthur had always seemed… More capable. That’s why she liked him, she thought. He wouldn’t run in a fight and he could do as she asked. He seemed to trust her capabilities, too, and she liked that more. That was the essence of it – everything else about him, the orneriness, the greed, the teasing, all of that was just window-dressing. But it sure made it more fun, didn’t it?

She heard male laughter come from an alley, and she carefully turned over the pocket watch to it’s flat, mirror back and angled it over. She could tell there were about a half-dozen men. She didn’t know if there’d be trouble, so she stayed smoking her cigar.

“Well, where is she, Morgan?” Some whiny, petulant voice echoed off the walls of the small space behind the stables. Esther released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and pocketed her watch.

“Calm down, Bill,” Arthur’s voice was welcome to her ears, “We don’t want the whole neighborhood hearin’.”

She was surprised to see Charles once again, his sharp eyes immediately finding her in the dark. They nodded to each other. Charles turned to Arthur beside him and touched his arm. When he recognized Esther, a flash of surprise rolled over his face, before it split into a grin, “Well, ain’t you lookin’ fancy.”

“Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Morgan,” Esther called, meeting the small group towards the middle of the square, “Mr. Smith.” Her eyes slid back towards Arthur in a question, and he didn’t answer her but introduced the rest of his posse.

“This is John,” A dark-haired man approached and peered at her.

“You sure about this?” The question seemed directed at Arthur, rather than Esther. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been smoking a pack a day since he was eleven. Knowing the childhoods some have, he might’ve.

“This is Bill,” Arthur ignored John and continued, pointing to the burly man whose size was as large but perhaps not so broad as Arthur’s, “This is Micah,” the man’s mustache pulled to the side of his face in a leer of doubt, “And this is Javier.” The smartly dressed brown-skinned man nodded at her.

“How’d’do?”

“Pleasure,” she nodded back.

“I don’t know about followin’ funny-looking girl’s at night, Arthur,” Bill looked her up and down and back at him.

“I don’t know that’s true, Bill,” Micah laughed. “I thought you liked the funny-lookin’ girls, especially the ones dressed up in pants.”

“Shut up.”

“The money is good,” Arthur shrugged, and Esther tried not to get irritated at that. Was that all she was good for?

“Esther is smart,” Charles said, and she flicked a glance towards him in thanks, “Arthur told you about how she pulled off the train robbery.”

So he’d been talking about her? Her cheeks warmed, and she hoped the shadows hit it well. She could see Lenny shooting his mouth off, but Arthur? _No, Esther,_ she chastised herself _, focus, you silly broad_. “I’ve got your money,” she spoke up, crossing her arms over her chest, “You can grab it after the job’s done.”

“Oh yeah?” Micah stepped forward.

“I don’t keep it on me,” she hoped her voice dripped the kind of contempt that illustrated to the listener just how much of an idiot he was for even thinking that was a possibility, and just how many steps she considered herself ahead of him, “I’ll tell Arthur later, and he can rendezvous with you and _then_ y’all can pick it up. Don’t want you splitting before your work’s done.”

“How much money?” Bill asked in that silly little voice of his.

“Three hundred, plus whatever you pick up along the way,” She said, and Javier whistled, “I’m not going to be asking you to plant daisies.”

“So what, exactly, is it we’ll be doin’?” Arthur crossed his arms. They had formed a sort of loose semi-circle around her, with Charles the closest, and then Arthur to her left and wrapping up with Javier on her right.

“Just making a little noise, that’s all.”

“We should be able to do that,” Javier’s voice had a chuckle in it. A joke she didn’t understand?

“I need you to make enough noise that most of the police in Saint Denis will need to report,” Esther held up a hand, “I’ve got the materials, just need you to carry out the plan, so that Arthur and I can go do the real work down by the docks.”

“Plannin’ on getting caught?” John asked, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Why’d’you need half the city’s watch out for?”

“Because the person we’re dealing with has the police in his pockets. There’ll be extra security down around the docks tonight, and we need to make it look like the bribes they’re getting aren’t worth missing out on a bit of action, alright?” John nodded, seeing the point. “Now, y’all will be robbing and then burning down the bookie house on the north side of town.” Now she had their attention, “The racketeering work is big in this city. That’s one of Bronte’s major sources of income. You threaten that, you’ll distract the police long enough that Arthur and I can do our work.” The police will want to protect their boss’ biggest money maker, and the source of most of their paycheck. An attack on the bookie house would also have the added effect of sowing doubt among the rank and file. Was Bronte losing his touch, that a bunch of cowboys could raid it? Which suited Esther just fine.

“Which is what, exactly?” Now Micah spoke, that leer still pulling at this mouth. What an unpleasant little man.

“Freeing a bunch of slaves. It’s cutting into my boss’ profit margin and he’d like it put out of business,” Esther explained easily, the lie comfortable on her lips after so much use, “That’s what he’s paying me for. Now, I just need y’all to be able to hold up your end of the bargain. Think you can manage that?” She looked at Arthur, who shrugged again.

“Who’s this boss?” Bill tried.

“Yeah, right,” Esther sneered.

“So, what, you give us the address and we just show up to this house?” Javier changed the subject, shifting on his feet. He had a bit of an accent as well. A well-traveled bunch it seems.

“No, it’s far too heavily guarded for that. On the other side of the conservatory for Algernon Wasp I’ve put a wagon of dynamite. Take a few sticks and start throwing them in. After people have started shooting at you, take care of them and then go inside and start ransacking the place, but don’t stick around. Charles, you won’t be joining them. I’ll give you the address where I’ve had a rowboat placed. You’ll paddle over to the dock of the bookie house, get everyone in, and get everyone to safety while the police are showing up. They’ll expect you to use the side-street to make a get-away, they won’t think of the marshes immediately. But you have to get-gone quickly, otherwise you’ll be sitting ducks. I mean it,” Esther tried to make eye-contact with everyone going, “If you try to use the streets, you’ll be cornered and gunned down like rats in a barrel. This is your only shot at escape, so be smart.”

“And making off with all the bags of cash we can carry?” Javier said hopefully.

Esther shook her head, “Everything of value is in safes. You’re welcome to use the rest of the dynamite to try and blow a few open, but these aren’t your home safes, or even your county-bank vaults. These are heavy-duty and modern, Bronte had them brought in from Britain.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this place,” Micah said.

Esther hid her surprise with disgust, and Arthur finally piped up, “She works as a maid in Bronte’s house. She does her research, unlike some people here tonight.” She saw Bill cast an angry glance at Arthur, then away. Micah just turned the leering smile on him.

“You sayin’ something about my planning skills, cowpoke?” His voice was even, friendly to an unpracticed ear.

“Is this really the place?” Esther asked, letting her irritation show.

“She’s right,” Charles said, “Is that all?”

She nodded, frown still on her face. She suddenly wasn’t so sure about sending these boys off. “Have you all set a rendezvous point?”

Arthur nodded. So Esther told them precisely where to find the dynamite, where Charles could find the rowboat, and told them that if all went well that Arthur would meet them there before sunrise. They parted ways.

Esther walked casually out into an alley, Arthur close behind her. She could hear the tell-tale clink of his spurs. _Ting. Ting. Ting,_ in time with his steps. “So what’s our plan?” his voice was quiet in the dark, though no one seemed to be around to hear them.

“We sneak onto the docks, figure out where they’re keeping the people they’ve stolen, and as soon as we see the police move out we get them out and escort them to Brother Dorkins. We can’t just leave them to their own devices. Police will be looking for them.” She tossed a glance back over her shoulder, looking at him in the dim ambient light of the city. His shirt was dark, along with his jeans, but he seemed a bit more spiffed up than he had on their first job. He wore deer half-chaps that looked smart on his rambler’s boots, in an outlaw-hunter kind of way.

“This way,” she said softly, and climbed up an iron ladder that seemed tucked just out of sight.

“Nice view,” Arthur mumbled as he climbed up behind her.

“Honestly,” Esther growled, but smiled too, “Could it wait ten minutes?”

“I ain’t never taken off a man’s britches before… ‘least, not sober.”

“Well, it won’t happen tonight, my friend. Tonight’s a working night.”

“Yeah, but what about after?”

She offered him a hand to help him onto the roof and he took it. The rooftop of the stables was considerably darker than the street below, and with the new moon tonight there were only the residual warmth of the gaslights to guide them. “What do you mean, after?” she asked, distracted. She picked her way across the roof, aiming towards were water glittered off in the distance.

“After the job. You should come back with us, have a good time…”

She turned and looked at him, “Would your bosses be okay with that? Because mine wouldn’t, if I were in your shoes.”

Arthur shrugged, “Maybe not, but I’m more of an apologies man, rather than a permissions man.”

“I can only imagine,” Esther smiled again and walked to the edge of the rooftop. Arthur was next to her, hands turning her hips to face him, mouth on hers. He was eager and strong. Esther liked the feeling of his hands on her hips, holding them in place so he could press against her. For a moment, she entertained the idea – meeting his gang, being introduced as the brains behind the train job and robbing Bronte’s bookie house, Arthur as her partner in scheming…

With a little effort, she pushed him off, “I should have brought Charles,” she cursed.

“If you weren’t joining us later, I had to get something in,” Arthur looked the farthest thing from apologetic.

“You’re on the job, Mr. Morgan,” Esther rolled her eyes and continued across the roof.

“What makes you think I ain’t workin’?”

They hunkered down. Esther felt his hand rest on the small of her back as they peered over the lip of the rooftop. She elected to ignore it rather than shake it off.

Below, the trainyard sat empty. Past that, a line of ships bobbed at the ends of a wide array of docks on Saint Denis’ south side, like jewels on the end of knobbly fingers. She couldn’t see any ships with movement around them. A breeze off the water ruffled her hair, and the screech of seagulls were loud even at night. She could smell the brine even up here.

“What’d’ya reckon?” Arthur asked softly, “Train comes in with the people, they walk ‘em out to the boat?”

“That’s exactly what I reckon.” Esther’s eyes took in the layout of the land. There was a large, rusted warehouse directly across from them on a pier, and no ships that looked awake in the harbor, and no trains… “Except, I think the train’s already come and gone. I think they’re in there,” she pointed ahead, “Waiting for the right boat.”

It was sloppy, she thought. She would have it timed so that the boat was ready to depart, had the train bring the slaves in and boarded the boat without waiting… Maybe Bronte had planned to do that, but plans had changed as the boat failed to arrive.

She felt Arthur take his hand off of her to dig around in his satchel and pull out a pair of binoculars. He scanned the area. She did a double-take.

“Did you shave right before coming?”

Arthur pulled his face away from the binoculars, “Maybe, wait, how can you tell?”

“You’ve a tan line,” she drew her finger over his cheek to illustrate where the bits of pale skin had given him away.

Arthur grumbled and put the binoculars up to his eyes again, “Too wily for me, princess.”

“You say that like it’s difficult to do,” Esther teased.

“Don’t be mean,” Arthur muttered, ignoring her.

“Aw, ‘m sorry,” She nuzzled his neck and he shrugged at her to cut it out. But she caught a glimpse of a smile.

“Thought you said we was workin’?”

“We are,” Esther said, “Look at you. Workin’ up a storm. What do you see?”

Arthur looked out over the trainyard, “Two guards by the east entrance, two guards by the west entrance. Looks awful light for having a big shipment in there.” Dogs howled in the distance.

Esther nodded, “They wouldn’t want to make it too obvious. Lots of nasty stuff goes down at the docks, I bet they don’t want to attract too much attention. Let’s give it a minute, see what else crops up.”

So Esther and Arthur settled in to wait. The raucous laughter and cries and hoots of a drunken Saint Denis on a Friday echoed around behind them, and the lamplight of the dockyards cast sharp shadows all around. They saw a policeman walk by, swinging his nightstick. He nodded to someone unseen in the shadows of the train tracks by the fence, and continued around the block. Fifteen minutes later, another policeman came by. Esther was keeping track with her pocket watch, and glanced at Arthur, who nodded at her in agreement. Fifteen-minute intervals.

“How long ‘til your boys get to work?” Esther asked, “Not that we can do anything until the parole is interrupted.”

“Oh, won’t be long. Bill’s probably just trying to figure out how to work the dynamite,” Arthur said with a wry smile.

“Why did you bring Charles? Thought I said to bring folk less principled.”

Arthur chuckled, “You think Charles is a saint?”

“No,” Esther said carefully, “But this job has the potential to go south very quickly. I didn’t want them hurt.”

“I’m here,” Arthur said, incredulous.

“I don’t care about _you_ ,” Esther mocked softly, shoving his shoulder. “But I didn’t want Lenny going into the bookie house… And I wanted you to be by my side in case… I don’t know. You still didn’t answer my question.”

His face was pale and glowing in the lamplight from the street below. Arthur looked at her, frowning, “In case what?”

“In case anything happened,” Esther waved a hand, trying to dismiss it.

“What, so _you_ can protect _me?_ ” His smile was incredulous.

Esther rolled her eyes, “Never mind, forget I said anything.”

“Naw, I think it’s real cute. Like a… Like a little dog jumping in front of a big dog.” That irked her. He had no idea who she truly was, she reminded herself. Little dog indeed… She’d scarred men for smaller slights. He was just a big dumb cowboy, and that’s why she liked him.

“You haven’t asked me where the money is,” she reminded him.

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur blinked, as if it just now occurred to him that they were getting paid for this work. Esther thought for a moment what might have happened if he’d returned to his boys empty-handed. Probably nothing pretty.

“On the other side of the bridge,” she nodded down the train tracks across the water, “There’s ruins of an old factory there, and a barrel in the ruins. You’ll find your money there.”

He nodded. After a minute of silence, he said, “I brought Charles because I trust him. I trust the rest of them, to a certain degree, but Micah and John and Bill… They can be wild cards. I wanted somebody else with some sense on the job.”

“You mean every member of the Van der Linde gang isn’t a cool-headed gunslinger capable of stealing three cars off a train?”

“Not as such,” but there was a sour note in his voice that spoke to Esther’s practiced ear of long hurts and ills. Esther thought that, perhaps, she wasn’t the only one who did a little babysitting.

They waited in the dark, and watched two more policemen walk past them, each nodding to the partner in the fence. Esther was starting to worry, until a policeman rounded the corner with a whistle to his lips, blasting it. The noise was a shrill, strident contrast to the lull of city noise. Arthur and Esther watched him spring to the fence around the train tracks, where all the men had been nodding, gesticulate wildly while talking, and run back the way he came with two more police officers appearing out of the dark. The guards at the gatehouse looked over to the commotion, and another policeman ran up to them to explain what was going on. There seemed to be a small argument about what the priority should be, but eventually, the third officer followed the other two.

Arthur made a move to rise and Esther grabbed his arm, “Not yet.”

“They lost four men,” Arthur whispered.

“We need to wait until the rest of the police in the vicinity have been drawn away as well. That way, if we get caught, back-up doesn’t show up, okay? We do this smart or we don’t do it at all.”

Arthur seemed to work this over in his mind, then nodded and hunkered back down. Esther decided she’d give it ten minutes, and kept time with her pocket watch. It was nearing midnight, and she finally nodded, “Okay, let’s see what Mr. Bronte has in store for us.”

They climbed down off the roof and leaned out of the darkness, looking for passerby in the street. There were none, of course, and Esther gestured for Arthur to follow her. She dashed into the lamplight then back into the sharp shadows, running straight up to a wooden fence wall that shielded the tracks from view from the street. She picked at the board she knew was loose and set it aside, and the one next to it. Arthur was suddenly beside her, and went through first. He was a tight fit, but didn’t make any noise. Esther moved quickly to follow, and placed the boards haphazardly behind her. She didn’t want the guards to look at the fence and see a chunk of light from the street beyond where there should not be any, but she didn’t think they’d look too closely.

They crouched behind a stack of lumber, now only able to see the west-side guards. “I take the west, you take the east?” Esther whispered.

“I’ll take ‘em both, if you can spare the patience. That’ll give you time to get inside and start on whoever’s in there.”

“Oh, how gallant, leaving me the enemies I can’t see.”

“The men inside probably won’t have repeaters, princess. You’ll have the element of surprise.”

“Then you go inside and I’ll take care of the ones on the outside.”

“Play you for it?” Arthur offered, and Esther pressed her lips together to hide a smile. She was having fun and she hated it.

“Fine,” She hissed and held out her fist. Arthur held out his own and together they shook them in time, _one, two, three._ Esther held up scissors while Arthur held up paper.

Arthur huffed a sigh, then Esther was suddenly on the ground. “Arthur!” She hissed again as he disappeared around the lumber. He’d actually _shoved_ her into the dirt. Esther scrambled to her feet but didn’t follow. His dark form was low but moved fast, already up to the warehouse. His boots didn’t even make a sound on the boardwalk, spurs silent for once. Arthur was a dark blotch against the walls of the warehouse. There was a lamp on either side of the western door where she could see the guards shifting on their feet, bored, and Arthur hadn’t yet come into their circle of light. The cowboy stopped at the corner, waiting for the right moment to turn. Esther held her breath, waiting. Suddenly, the guard nearest Arthur started to choke, and as he collapsed the other guard brought up his repeater but too late as something flew out of the shadows and landed with a crunch over his eye. They fell to the boardwalk unmoving. Nothing moved in the lamplight. Arthur was quick, collecting his knife and tomahawk and rolling the bodies into the water. Then he disappeared around the far corner, and Esther stood and started to creep forward.

No one called out. No one told her to stop. So she kept going. But just as soon as her boot touched the boardwalk, a cry split the night, “Hey!”

Her heart leaped into her throat. Adrenaline and terror at the prospect of getting caught shot through to her fingers. Without thinking, she ran to the building and flattened herself against it, edging towards the east side. She heard scuffling and a yelp of pain. That didn’t sound like Arthur, but it didn’t take a genius to know he was in trouble. She pitched herself around the corner as a gunshot went off, and froze.

One guard was dead, half-hanging off the pier, while another had Arthur in a choke-hold. His boots scrambled on the deck for purchase and she could hear the gagging sounds he made, while the guard was screaming for help, blood running down his side. Both of them faced away from her. A throwing knife was in her hand and raised, but the next moment the door opened and Guido stepped out with two other men.

Two thoughts entered Esther’s mind at the same time. One: They were now grievously outnumbered without the element of surprise. Two: She wasn’t going to free the slaves tonight. Esther did what she never thought she would do. She panicked. She threw herself back into the dark around the corner, pulse loud in her ears, breathing heavily. Her brain rattled around as if it were loose on her stem inside her skull. What the fuck was he doing here? She heard Guido say, “What the fuck? What the fuck is this?” What the _hell_ was he doing here? Shit. Shit shit. This was no longer a chance of success or failure, she could only mitigate how badly the failure was.

“He killed Martin! He was sneaking around… Settle _down_ you fucker!”

Fuck, this was a disaster.

She heard Arthur yell hoarsely as something made a sickening _whump._ “How the fuck did he get up here?” Guido was furious

“Someone was robbing the bookie house, the extra guard is gone, the police are fucking useless.”

_Think_ , Esther, _think._

“What the fuck do we pay them for? Cut it _out,_ you stupid cunt.”

_Think,_ you silly bitch, _what the fuck are you going to do?_

“Should we just shoot him?”

“Well, we’re certainly not telling Bronte about this fuck-up.”

Esther stepped around the corner, and all the guns were suddenly pointed at her. She focused all of her nervous energy into a placid smile on her face, and raised her hands mockingly, “Not going to tell Bronte, what?” She walked slowly and casually into the light.

“Esther,” Guido was surprised to see her. She could practically hear the cogs in his brain working furiously to understand how this came to be, sparks flying with the effort. Did she know about the slaves? Why else would she be here? But why would she know? “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was working, unlike some folks,” she cast a disdainful look over to the man who now had Arthur on the ground, a pistol aimed at the back of his head. Arthur wasn’t moving, but his breathing was harsh and ragged. His arm was pinned behind him with a knee, the other cast out in front of him. She jutted a chin towards him, “It’s one of the cowboys that’ve been bothering Bronte. I was following him into town, since I suspected the robbery currently going on at our racketeering hub was a ruse.”

“Oh? And you didn’t think of warning us earlier?” Guido didn’t bother to hide his frustration.

“Didn’t want to give-up the game,” she smiled.

“Sure your father will see it like that?” Guido challenged her.

Esther walked up to him, the picture of calm, tilting her chin up, _Tell me, Martelli,_ she said in Italian, _What do you think? Who will he actually be angry at, in this situation? I would love to play those odds._ Her heart was hammering in her chest, but her face was cool. She may not be the fastest gun, she may not be the strongest in the room, but she was very good at poker.

_Arrogant little shit,_ Guido smiled, his malice worn like a party hat. He’d never liked her and never made a secret of it. That was fine, but it usually didn’t involve her friends. She could see him calculating. He was trying to gauge how much she knew. But Esther had spun her story quickly, and it seemed a strong one. She was only following the cowboy. She didn’t know anything about slaves. This was a tightrope walk, and she didn’t dare look down.

“I’m taking him with me. Bronte will want to question him directly.”

“You bitch,” she heard Arthur cough, the heat behind it hot enough to melt steel. He received a punch to the back of the head that made the front smack resoundingly against the boardwalk.

“I think both of you should hang around. We could question him together.” Esther felt the jaws of the trap closing in on her. The tightrope was shaking. Question Arthur, and question Esther. The thought was almost enough to break her composure. But she couldn’t falter. Both her and Arthur’s lives were riding on this now.

“Ha. I’m sure you would. Gag him and hogtie him,” Esther said, bored, “I don’t want to hear it.” She didn’t want Arthur running his mouth, ruining what semblance of a plan she had. She turned and put her fingers to her lips and whistled for Cuez as she walked away from the mess under the lamplight. Guido was deeply unhappy, but didn’t press her. It radiated off of him, but he couldn’t question her, and they both knew it.

The guards loaded a struggling Arthur, now securely bound and mouth stuffed with his bandana, onto Cuez with a little difficulty. He was a tall horse. Esther mounted up.

“Sure you don’t want a guard?” Guido’s voice was brittle. “Never know what might happen to a girl on the roads at night.”

“What, and have you take the credit?” She smiled, teasing him, “Not a chance.”

He smirked at her, not hiding his distaste very well. His guards seemed nonplussed at giving the man who had murdered their comrades over to her, but she was the boss’s right hand, above reproach. Guido’s eyes glinted in the dark, brain still working, scheming. She wasn’t looking forward to whatever little plans he’d cook up.

Esther didn’t waste any time and kicked Cuez into a canter while trying not to look as if she were fleeing, as if she were going back to Bronte’s mansion, but as soon as the docks were out of sight she took a left into the city park. It was dark, and whoever was still here had no more interest in being seen than Esther did.

She listened for hoofbeats. No one chased after them. Guido’s men had not followed her. Her heart was still hammering, her chest tight and the nerves making her hands shake ever so slightly.

She dismounted and pulled a squirming Arthur by his belt off of Cuez. He landed with a grunt of pain, his face bloodied from the brief beating Bronte’s guards had managed to get in before she arrived. Esther’s stomach twisted. How could things have gone so wrong? She thought about cutting his bonds… but no. The first time they had ever properly met, she’d turned her back on him and he’d put a letter opener to her throat. It was who he was. This was who they both were. Their kisses had been real, but so was this.

Arthur stared at her with those flinty blue eyes, enraged. She could tell he was trying to say something to her around the bandana, but she made no move to pull it out. She couldn’t face that right now, with failure pressing so heavily at her already. He wasn’t happy. Of course, he was a bit ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid. She breathed out, “It’s a long story.” She looked at Cuez, her friend and traveling companion ever since he first came from over the sea. Esther knew she had to make it look convincing, but even so, she would miss him.

“Here’s what happened,” she didn’t look at Arthur, “You overpowered me on the ride back, surprised me with a knife, left me on the side of the road. Simple.” She tossed one of her throwing knives beside him, and he looked at it, bewildered but still furious. “The fun times are over. You can still collect your money, you earned it.” She started to walk away and Cuez turned his head with her. She told him to stay.

“Consider us even, for our first job. Don’t come looking for me, Arthur. I won’t save you then,” she still couldn’t look at him. It was hard. Everything had gone so wrong. She didn’t slow down as she strode out of the park, and didn’t meet anyone else on the way home.

She paused only in the cemetery, to strike her face against a marble monument. It took some doing. She nearly knocked herself out. But she wouldn’t be able to return without some scuff marks. For good measure she also threw herself into a puddle, covering herself with piss and rainwater and god-knows-what else. It felt fitting, in a strange way. She didn’t quite know how to articulate it, except that arriving at Bronte’s mansion, humiliated and filthy, didn’t make her feel any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, women weren't legally allowed to buy stocks until the 20th century. https://www.theguardian.com/money/us-money-blog/2014/aug/11/women-rights-money-timeline-history


	10. A King of Sugar Cane

Bronte was furious with her. She’d lost an enemy, even though he was tied up for her like a present. She did not warn him about her suspicions of the bookie house being robbed. All the cowboys had gotten away somehow, without a trace. Esther was relieved at that. One less thing to worry about.

Guido was thrilled at the news. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” his smirk was filled with the kind of smug victory that Esther felt was undeserved. He had this _one_ failure on her, and all of a sudden he puffed his chest out like a rooster and strutted around the mansion. Her failures hadn’t removed her from her place beside Bronte. Had it?

It was hard to say. Bronte didn’t outright punish her, but she was suddenly stuck taking care of small jobs that she’d usually hand-off to Guido. Who was handing out fraudulent notes to banks? She took care of it. Who was bothering the working girls on the far end of town? She took care of it. Sending out enforcers to make sure that bribes got to the right people, and that those people did as they were paid. She did not permit him to touch the moonshine operation, however. That was hers, and she didn’t trust Guido to work with the shiners out of Rhodes. He didn’t like the “eggplants,” and she didn’t want his issues to ruin her hard work. Otherwise, Bronte ignored her, not speaking to her at dinner or asking to step into his office for a quick chat about a politician or another. It was… confusing. Esther knew she would have to move against his slaving operation eventually, replace Bronte, but being shut-out like this hurt her pride. She hadn’t expected it to. Perhaps she had put too much value on being his right hand. No, she _knew_ she’d placed too much value on it. It was embarrassing.

Arthur did not show his face at the estate, demanding answers, and she didn’t dare walk the streets asking after him. Something twisted painfully in her stomach over the memory of his eyes glaring at her, gagged and bound on the ground.

She managed to send a note to Brother Dorkins that all abolitionist activities would have to pause. People were watching her too closely. She didn’t mention Arthur Morgan.

This is how Esther slowly started rebuilding her routines into something resembling normalcy. It was a long, patient process, but one that had to be done if she was to survive.

Until the Van der Linde gang hit the trolley station. Esther didn’t know why she was surprised. She had told Arthur it was a trap, but now that he knew she worked for Bronte in some capacity, had lied to him, what was her word worth? Nothing, that’s what. No, she wasn’t surprised, but then why did she take her private ledger and heave it into the floor, as hard as she could, cracking the spine and scattering loose sheets of paper everywhere?

The messenger who had told her stared, and not knowing what else to do continued: “Bronte wants you and Martelli to hunt them down before they leave the city again.”

“They’re still here?!” Esther’s voice climbed to a disconcerting pitch.

“Yes, a runner came as soon as he saw them arrive at the station.”

Esther picked up her skirts in her hands and was already downstairs, “Give me your shotgun,” she barked at a guard, and he handed it over despite her wild look, “Did you come on a horse?” The messenger was following on her heels.

“It’s out front, ma’am.”

“Look who’s working today,” Guido’s snide voice came from behind her and she stopped, the messenger nearly crashing into her back.

“Not the time,” Esther snapped, and continued down the stairs and out the front door. The sun was hot and the air was sticky. Riding in skirts wasn’t going to be easy, but she clearly didn’t have time to change. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. Luckily, she didn’t often wear corsets when at home. Guido followed her out, already checking his guns, loading the pistols he kept in secret holsters. He told someone to go get his horse from the house’s stables for visitors, while Esther mounted up on the messenger’s. She hadn’t yet had time to buy a replacement for Cuezaltzin. She’d been half-hoping the stallion would crop-up again at a fence. All of the city horse traders knew him on sight, but none had seen him passed through their stables. Adrenaline was already surging through her arms and legs, and she wanted to go, to get gone, though she had no idea what she would do if she ever caught up to the gang.

“Wait for me,” Guido snapped, the tone sounding suspiciously like an order.

Esther bristled, “They’re getting away.”

“You can’t handle yourself with them. Wait for me and we’ll go together.”

It occurred to Esther that if she waited for Guido that Arthur and god-knows who else would have more time to get away, and she could wash her hands of the matter. But to do as Guido said, like a good little girl, didn’t sound appealing. She was also, in a small space in her chest, afraid of what would happen on the slim chance that Guido and Arthur were ever faced with one another. Guido was an arrogant man, but he was a swift gun.

“Fat chance,” Esther said, and spun the horse and kicked it into a gallop riding south. She heard Guido shout and ignored him.

She didn’t know what was happening in her head, or what she wanted. She rode like a madwoman down the streets, people dropping what they were carrying and tumbling out of the way. She rode like she owed these cowboys something.

Esther turned down a street to the main thoroughfare, and heard gunshots. Her head snapped around, hair flying wildly, but she just had time to see two policemen shooting after a trolley going much too fast. She didn’t have to question it – she knew that the gang must have sought out the trolley as an escape route from the station. It’s what she would have done. Esther slowed the horse, balancing herself in the stirrups as it tossed its head. It wasn’t used to all this excitement and noise. And it was just a little Saddler, almost four hands shorter than her warhorse. It made it difficult to see as far as she might’ve.

Esther’s thoughts came like dominoes: If the gang was escaping on the trolley, where would they stop? They could stop outside of the train station or the stables, or the docks or… They wouldn’t know how to stop, would they? They were cowboys, who likely had never used a trolley. The tracks switched near the trolley station, at the end of its loop. That’s where they would be forced to stop.

She forced her heels back into the horse’s side, and took off again, the shuddering impacts of hoofs on cobblestones felt in her knees. She knew this city like the back of her hand. She had no idea what she would do once she got there, but that was a question for Future Esther.

At the end of the line, she vaulted off the horse. She could hear the commotion down the street, next to the trolley station, but that’s not where the action would take place. No sooner had she made sure the shotgun was loaded she heard the trolley shrieking on the rails, gunshots following.

Something caught her eye. A wagon full of cargo and a draft horse. The man driving looked angry at something, but she couldn’t see what. “Sir!” Esther bellowed. He didn’t acknowledge her. _Fuck, this could get messy._ “Sir!”

Esther thought he might clear the rails in time, but alas. The sound was deafening and she could feel the impact through the road, up into her boots. The trolley jumped, sparks flying, tortured metal wailing as crates exploded and spun. She saw the trolley do something complicated in the air, and felt it land again on its side, as glass shattered and passerby started screaming, not understanding what had happened

No time to think. Esther raced ahead, not waiting for the idiot people to figure out that this was a dangerous spot to be in. She didn’t wait for the police to show up and start picking them off. Shotgun in one hand and skirts bunched up in the other, she sprinted to where the trolley lay like a wounded beast, smoking. Something mysterious was hissing steam, but she didn’t pause to find out what. She slid to her knees at the mouth of the trolley, “Arthur!”

There came no reply, and she pushed in, tearing her skirts over the shattered benches and debris, “Arthur Morgan! Can you hear me?”

A groan came from beside her.

“Lenny!” She was next to him, pulling him upright, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Esther?” He was bleeding somewhat, but she couldn’t see from where, “Could ask you the same… Dutch?”

“Here,” came a weak voice under a bench. Without hesitation Esther and Lenny helped pry it off of the infamous leader. The man looked decidedly less suave than when he first sat in Bronte’s parlor, joking and laughing and drinking port.

“You alright, Dutch?” Esther’s head snapped up at the sound of Arthur’s voice. He was holding on to a metal hand-hold on the ceiling, which used to be the side of the trolley. He looked a little worse for wear, shirt torn and hand pressed to his shoulder.

“Hit my head,” the man’s voice was distant, but that would have to wait.

“Arthur, get out there, I’ll help Lenny with Dutch,” Esther said. He just looked at her, dazed, as if he didn’t totally understand what she was asking him. “Go!” she shouted.

He went, turning and stumbling outside to leave Lenny and Dutch to her.

“Esther?” Lenny asked, by way of interrogation. What had Arthur told him? Did he know she worked for Bronte?

“It’s a long story,” She huffed, pulling Dutch upright and throwing an arm over her shoulder. The boy looked like he wanted to argue, but shook his head. Lenny joined her under the other arm, and they managed to get him outside.

“I’m… I’m good to walk,” Dutch moaned. He didn’t look like it. He was pale, and his eyes drifted. “My head…”

Esther could hear the police whistles getting closer, “We need to move.” She shrugged Dutch’s arm off and put the shotgun to her shoulder, “Follow me!”

“Arthur! We’re going!” Lenny called. Arthur was getting potshots on distant policemen, and seemed relieved to be headed in a direction away from this place. He jumped up from behind a fallen crate and sprinted towards them as Esther jogged into a dark alley, glancing behind her to make sure Dutch, Lenny, and Arthur were close.

They came out into a garden, where a woman dropped her washing and screamed. Esther raised her shotgun, bellowing, “Scram!”

She didn’t need to be asked twice, and Esther led them farther into the dark of Saint Denis’ alleyways. Her heart was still hammering in her chest. There’d hardly had time to think. Everything was just instinct and motion, but for all Esther Dobranoc’s faults, she never forgot a lesson learned.

When Arthur grabbed her neck and pushed her against a grubby wall, she was ready, and had the shotgun jammed under his chin as he cocked his pistol, “Where are you taking us?”

“Arthur!” Lenny shouted in protest. Dutch had a hand to his forehead, and looked like he was struggling to make sense of the situation. Esther didn’t blame him.

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Esther gasped, pressing the shotgun deeper into his chin.

“We can’t trust her,” Arthur growled at Lenny, teeth gritting, “She ain’t what she told us.” His eyes were two flat stones, looking at her like she was a nasty inconvenience. Whatever they’d had before… It wasn’t here now.

“My name is Esther Dobranoc,” She choked has his grip tightened, “I’m the ward of Angelo Bronte…”

“That snake?” Dutch’s eyes were starting to get sharper.

“… Everything else I told you was true,” Esther was starting to see spots, and knew either Arthur would have to let go or she would have to pull the trigger because otherwise she wouldn’t have enough strength to do so. An awful weight moved into her stomach as she realized the depth of Arthur’s rage. Would he kill her? Right here?

“Let go!” Lenny shoved at Arthur’s arm, and his grip released. She drew in a ragged breath, feeling light-headed.

“Bronte has been slaving without my knowledge, I tried to stop him,” Esther continued, throat raw, while Arthur’s eyes flayed her.

“We don’t have time for this,” Dutch pulled out his pistol, still looking confused but also angry, moving farther up the alleyway, “Which way to the main road?”

“I’ll show you,” Esther moved off the wall, but Arthur seized her arm with a grip like iron.

“We can’t trust her, Dutch.”

“Arthur! We ain’t got much of a choice,” Lenny’s tone held the kind of anger she didn’t know the kid was capable of. It seemed to surprise Arthur too. He let go, and Esther didn’t waste a moment. She broke into a run up the alleyway. The tell-tale _clink_ of spurs told her they followed. When they broke out into sunshine again, Esther turned and pulled the trigger into a policeman running up the street. The gun seemed impossibly loud and kicked so hard into her shoulder she knew she’d bruise. He seemed to crumple like a puppet with its strings cut, and she pushed forward. Lenny and Arthur blinked at the body, then at her.

“Up ahead! You grab the wagon, get out of here!” People were running in all directions, trying to get away from the crazed lunatics with shotguns and pistols.

“Esther, come with us!” Lenny shouted, aiming and taking a shot at a mounted policeman barreling down the street towards them. Dutch fired at the man too, and his horse crumpled in a shriek of pain. The man went flying from the saddle, rolling to a stop against some crates.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Esther told him, picking up her skirts and running for cover behind a water barrel, “Just get out of here!” She wasn’t risking her neck just so these idiots could get caught. “I said get out of here, Lenny!” The man looked at her, cursed, and jumped into the driver’s seat as Dutch clamored into the back. Arthur was still in the street, picking off policemen as they appeared in their blue uniforms. Esther couldn’t help but notice how calm he looked, despite the chaos. She shook her head.

“Arthur!” She bellowed, “Get in the fucking wagon!” The draft horses tossed their heads and bobbed in their harnesses, confused and panicking.

He ran over to leap into the back of the wagon beside Dutch, and looked back at her, “You can’t stay here!” The nerve.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She fired at the feet of a horse down the street, and it reared and bolted from the policeman who’d been using it as a shield. Why couldn’t the man ever do what he was told? He was going to kill her mere seconds ago. The water barrel’s side exploded in splinters, missing her by inches. “Fuck!” Her dress was soaked. “Lenny! Go!”

She heard the crack of reigns on the backside of the horses, and Arthur had to run and dive into the back of the wagon as Lenny finally got them moving. Esther didn’t wait to see where they went. She sprinted into the nearest alley, leaving the sound of gunfire echoing behind her.

…

Esther picked splinters out of her hair as she walked home. She was going to have to change, quickly, once she arrived at the estate. She didn’t want to have to explain how she was filthy and smelling of gunpowder and then claim that she had missed the cowboy’s by minutes.

When she walked through the door, she immediately went to climb the stairs when a voice called out, “Esther, dear, is that you?” She froze.

“Yes, Signor Bronte.”

“Step into the library, my sweet magnolia, I have something to discuss.”

“Father, can it wait? I’m covered in filth.”

“I’m afraid it can’t.” Her stomach dropped and cold, wet panic ran down the crown of her head and down her spine. She turned and noticed a guard standing on the inside of the door, which she had not noticed before, and another guard appeared at the top of the stairs. Adrenaline surged through her, but she did not panic. She felt the pulse in her ears. A foot eased down from the staircase, and she backed away, “Of course.” Esther hoped the panic hadn’t entered her voice. Thoughts didn’t so much as flow as ricochet in her mind. How did he know? How could he possibly know? Had Arthur betrayed her? But why would he do that? None of this made sense. She walked slowly to the office door, past the parlor, where this whole mess began, and stepped into Bronte’s library.

Her eyes locked onto a woman whose hands were tightly grasping filthy skirts, head bowed and shoulders trembling. Esther didn’t recognize her at first – why would she? She’d only seen her for an instant. More clues came as Guido’s smile turned smug and ridiculously pleased with himself. He leaned against a table worth more than the salaries of two of his henchman, looking like a cat who’d got the cream.

“Tell her the story you told me,” Bronte wasn’t looking at her. He was staring out the window, a lit cigar forgotten in his hand.

Guido looked all too eager to do so, “I saw your horse at the scene of the trolley crash. Fearing the worst, I sent men to try and retrace the outlaw’s steps, only to find this poor, terrified woman picking up her washing. She said the cowboys had pointed guns at her, but there was a woman with them…”

Esther’s grip on the shotgun had tightened, her heart hammering in her chest. Should she use it on them? Should she use it on herself? She felt like a rat in a cage, scrabbling for a small enough crack, tearing at the wires, trying to find any way to get loose. She had always been the one to prepare. She wasn’t the kind to let things get so far out of hand.

“Imagine my surprise when the description matched you, Esther. Tell us: What were you doing, running around with cowboys?”

Bronte grunted, “Especially after they’ve surely known who you are for weeks. After all, you captured one of them yourself, did you not?” His voice was devoid of emotion.

“But he got away,” Guido’s grin turned vicious. He could taste victory. He was not going to be a good sport about it. “Don’t you remember? Esther came in smelling of piss and missing that horse of hers.”

Bronte didn’t answer. Esther couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, or wrathful, or ambivalent. He certainly didn’t give any indication of emotion to her. After all these years… She still struggled to read him. His cigar ash drooped and fell onto the carpet. He was upset, but she couldn’t tell which direction it would swing. Esther could feel the cage being picked up and shook, urging her to fall into the sack to be drowned like that rat she was.

“You were slaving,” She wrenched up the words and threw them to the floor, “You were slaving in _this_ city, after everything you taught me.” She hated how naïve and upset she sounded.

Guido reached into his pocket and shoved a wad of cash into the washerwoman’s chest. She yelped in surprise, now visibly shaking with fear. He shoved her towards the door, where two more guards had appeared, “Was that your excuse to betray us?”

“Shut up, Martelli, you wouldn’t know loyalty if it died in your bed.”

Fury flashed in his eyes, “You arrogant bitch, do you have any idea-.”

“Enough,” Bronte seemed to wake up, and turned around, shaking his head, “I knew you weren’t ready for that account book, my sweet, this is why I kept it a secret. I only wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Esther sputtered, “That’s a damn lie and you know it. You’ve never protected me from anything in this business.”

“Drop the gun, Esther,” Guido snarled, and for the first time she noticed the pistol in his hand. A bundle of white-hot emotions tumbled through her. Anger at being accused of using it. Fear at the possibility of needing to. Embarrassment at how quickly she forgot she was holding it. She held it up by the barrel and tossed it at him.

“Not like you to shoot an armed man, Martelli,” Esther sneered.

“Enough, Esther. If you were anyone else in this family, you would be dead already, you stupid girl,” Bronte snapped. Esther shut her mouth. He shook his head and walked over to a desk, “I had such high hopes.” _No you didn’t,_ Esther thought, and realized it was true. He had hidden slaving from her. What else had he been hiding? What had he been hoping? Giving her house and home, and that would buy her loyalty forever? It had worked, hadn’t it? But she had stepped too far out on the limb of independence. And now she had to be cut down. “I don’t know what I’ll do with you yet. I need time to think.” Bronte wasn’t looking at her. She didn’t like that. He turned and nodded at Guido, who turned and threw a glance over her shoulder.

She had just enough time to tense before something hit the back of her head, and the world became a tunnel, and then a pinhole of light, and then nothing at all.

* * *

Esther woke with a start, a dull ache pounding behind her eyelids. Her head felt fragile as an egg, with the yolk sloshing around inside. It was dark, and she was grateful for that, because any light probably would have made the egg cook. She couldn’t feel her left hand, and panicked until she realized that it had only fallen asleep as she lay on it in handcuffs. She was able to straighten with a groan, and pain lanced up her forearm and into her elbow as her left hand as blood flow was restored. The corner of something sharp dug into her spine.

She would be in Bronte’s study. That’s where he always stuck prisoners for interrogation. Of course. They’d be wanting to know how much she told the Van der Linde gang.

The day came back to her like a bad dream in reverse; it didn’t slowly float away upon waking, rather, it coalesced into even starker reality. Shit, she was in so much trouble. Stupid. She was so stupid for riding out after Arthur. She could have waited – should have waited for Guido. She couldn’t let herself think about how much this might cost her, though, because then she would panic, and above all: Esther didn’t panic.

She was still in her filthy clothes from the day before. Or was it the same day? She couldn’t tell, except it was night, judging by the darkness outside the windows. The lamps from the walkways below the house cast a little ambient light into the office, but not much. Didn’t matter. She knew this room by heart. Esther knew she was fucked regardless, because she was chained to the desk, and there was nothing of use to reach in this spot. She tugged at the handcuffs, getting a feel for how tightly they were clasped around her hands behind her back. It seems they handcuffed her around the leg of Bronte’s desk. The enormous, solid-oak desk, weighing hundreds of pounds. There was no hope of her lifting it from this angle. She shifted, trying to find a spot where the corner of the desk didn’t dig into her shoulders.

Her fingers curled and grasped at the handcuffs. The metal was warm from her skin. She needed to find out what kind they were. Her brain shoved away the fox in the trap metaphor, gnawing at its own leg to be freed. She felt the tell-tale ridges of ratchets in the cuffs, but that didn’t mean anything. It could still be the new-fangled double-lock handcuffs, the kind almost impossible to pick, but she wouldn’t know until hours later after she’d been fussing with them for forever and by then it would be too late.

She fought off despair. Now was not the time.

Esther wondered at what might be on the desk, and what might be useful to her. She could try picking the lock, though that was tricky enough without the right equipment. A shiv would be better. Shame she wasn’t wearing her spy-work boots, which hid such things in their heel. Ridiculous. She’d spent a lifetime preparing only to have nothing of use when she actually needed it. _Focus, Esther._

Usually there were books on the desk, a ledger, an inkwell, a pen, that gold lion that was a gift from an ambassador or another… But so many different things circulated on it. She tried to crane her neck and look over her shoulder, but the desk was too tall and there was hardly any slack or give in the cuffs. Forget it, there’s no way she’d be able to reach behind her anyway. She looked behind her, around the room. Was there anything she could knock over, use as a weapon before Martelli and Bronte started questioning her?

Too late. She heard footsteps outside the door and men’s voices. The door swung open easily to the thugs with the keys. She didn’t recognize them. Of course, these men would be loyal to Martelli. He wouldn’t let henchmen who might be favorable to Esther into the room.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” One of them smiled amiably enough, “I suppose you know why we’re here.” Their accents didn’t even sound Saint Denis. They sounded like they came from up north.

“Suppose I do,” she tracked the one she couldn’t see. His footsteps reverberated through the old wood floors. He was coming around the desk to the other side, while the one talking kept her attention focused the other way. She turned and met his eyes, scrubbing any hint of fear from her expression. These men would be looking for a reaction from her. She couldn’t give them one.

“We’ve been told not to kill ya, but I suppose not many rules have been applied beyond that.” That was a lie. She knew what they were implying, but Bronte would never let them touch her in such a way. Would he? He had brought female spies to his office before, and Esther had been told nothing of the sort had happened to them, but maybe that was a lie too. Maybe he was so angry with her he’d let them have free access to her.

The punch made her head bounce against the hardwood of the desk, and her shoulder twist painfully.

“Why don’t you just tell us what you told the cowboys now, so we can get this over with, huh?”

“Never told the cowboys a damn thing, but you’ll have to work harder if you want me singing a different tune,” Esther spit at the one talking. She wasn’t arrogant enough to think she wouldn’t start lying under torture. She knew how the physics of such things worked. She had been a student of its arithmetic. A man could stand to lose a finger or two, but the kind of sustained pain that these gentlemen had in mind would be the kind that would wring out whatever stories they wanted to hear.

Another punch made her see stars. She felt her eyes start to water from the stinging, unable to help the reaction.

“She’s got a bad attitude,” grunted the other, who had up until now let the fists do the talking.

“We were warned,” the other waved it off and lit a cigarette.

“Won’t have it for long,” the other said with a smile in his voice, and his shoe came down on Esther’s hip.

She cried out, half in surprise and half in pain. It came down again, this time on her stomach, and she nearly threw up as the air was driven from her. A gunshot rang out in the distance, and for a moment Esther thought one of them had pulled out a pistol and was now trying to threaten her with it. But when she looked up, gasping, eyes watering, they were looking at each other in confusion. Another shot rang out. It came from outside, where there definitely wasn’t supposed to be gunfire. Then the shots came quickly, one after the other, at different calibers and different barrels, from the boom of a shotgun to the crack of rifles. A window broke and crashed, raining bits of glass all over the carpet.

“What the fuck?” The thug with the mean shoe cried out, reaching inside his jacket. Esther didn’t think, she just reacted, basing the trajectory of her actions on the premise that she was in pain and hurt and desperately, desperately afraid for her life. She twisted and drove her heel as hard as she could into the fork in the man’s trousers, feeling it hit home into something soft.

“You bitch-,” was all the man could choke out before the pain hit him and he doubled over, dropping his gun and collapsing onto the glittering carpet. He gagged, much to Esther’s satisfaction, fighting for air. Chaos reigned outside. Without thinking again, Esther drove her heel into the side of the man’s head, before his partner cocked his pistol in her ear.

“That’s enough!” He roared, but Esther could see the panic in his eyes. Not at her, at the sheer volume of gunshots coming from outside. There wasn’t any doubt. The Bronte mansion was under attack.

The next thing Esther saw was the row of his bottom teeth, stark in the lamplight from outside, all the way back to his molars, as the top of his head was cleaved off. His pistol fired uselessly into the air as the momentum of the stray round pushed him back, the last vestiges of nerve energy clenching at death, but he didn’t move again once in a heap on the floor.

Both she and the thug left over stared at the fallen comrade a moment, then each scrambled for the fallen gun. She managed to twist her leg around and kick the pistol under the desk, though still too far away for her hands, and blocked his reach with her leg.

“You stupid cunt!” He punched her chest, blindly beating at her and clawing at her skirts to get out of the way, but Esther knew if she moved her leg that she’d be shot, and then she’d be dead. Now she really was the fox in the trap. Death sat on her shoulder, watching her, waiting for a moment of weakness before snuffing her out. She wouldn’t let it. She would fight until the last.

Esther screamed wordlessly, heaving her head forward and cracking it against his. He howled as blood poured down his face from his broken nose.

“What on earth is going on in here!?” The shout came from Martelli, now in the room with a ridiculous golden pistol that gleamed in the dim light.

“Cunt hit me!” The thug grunted at him, still clawing at Esther’s skirts.

“Bronte said no playing around with her, you stupid pig!” Martelli heaved the thug away by the collar of his jacket. A strange emotion ran through Esther. She didn’t have time to contemplate it. She would examine it later. “What the hell happened to Scott?”

“Stray bullet, what the hell is happening?” The thug pressed a hand to his face, but it did little to stem the blood that now soaked the front of his shirt.

Martelli turned to sneer at Esther, “It’s those goddamn cowboys. They’re trying to burn the place to the ground. Get downstairs,” he shoved at the thug, “Take care of it.”

Esther didn’t think. She dug her heels into the carpet and heaved, pushing wildly against the table, slamming herself back with all her strength. The desk inched backward.

“You’re not going to lift the damn thing,” Martelli barely glanced at her, instead going to the bookshelf and pulling the rare, leather-bound texts off the shelves and throwing them unceremoniously to the floor.

Esther didn’t listen, but growled wordlessly, feeling the expensive rug tear under her boots as she pushed the desk backward. She would not die here. Adrenaline made her strong and tense as a violin string, ready to snap.

Martelli reached and started fiddling with the safe now revealed in the bookshelf, spinning the dial with an expert hand. It opened without issue, as if he’d done this a million times before, revealing a small stack of ledgers and a few money clips. He let out a small, self-satisfied noise. Esther shoved the desk back again.

Suddenly the gunshots sounded much closer. The echoes no longer came from outside, but from within the house, along with the sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood and shouts of pain.

Martelli glanced at the door, shoving the money clips into his jacket pocket, and taking the top ledger, “Sounds like your friends are close.”

Esther felt the handcuffs scrape skin from her wrists, but she was too far gone to care. She wasn’t panicking, but she was operating under the same animal fear that drove deer to keep running even after their heart and lungs have been pinned by arrows. Her fingers strained, reaching, desperate, seeking. She felt every nerve in her fingertips, every whisper of air on them, and when she felt the cool metal she felt like whooping in relief. It was short-lived though. She heard thundering footsteps down the hall and suddenly Martelli was over her, pistol pressed to the crown of her skull.

“Now, let’s not do anything hasty, boys,” Martelli said calmly to the sweaty, grimy faces of Arthur, John and Lenny, who were crammed in the doorway and heaving for breath. Arthur had a repeater to his shoulder though, and didn’t look the least bit bothered by the battle he must have fought through the house. John had a rage in his eyes that Esther put to vengeance, and only Lenny seemed frazzled by the gunfight.

“Esther?” Lenny asked, taking in her bloodied face with wide eyes.

“Hey kid,” She coughed to hide sound of sliding the gun into the palm of her hand.

“One more step into this room,” Martelli boomed, “And I will blow her head off.”

“What’s she to us?” Arthur asked, “Where’s Bronte?”

Martelli sneered, “You expect me to believe that?”

Arthur shrugged, “Believe what you want, we’re just after Bronte. Tell us where he is and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Esther saw John glance at Arthur warily.

“Seems you’re letting an awful lot of work go to waste,” Martelli said slowly.

Arthur’s voice seemed full of tension, a coil ready to spring. “She paid us for the last job and that’s it.”

“Your little whore went through an awful lot of trouble to cover her tracks. Oh yes, we had a tough time pinning you down. Didn’t matter in the end though, we’ve got you now, you’re not leaving this house alive. I said ONE MORE STEP.” He fired the gun right in front of Esther’s face, and the sound made her go temporarily deaf. The rug beside her leg suddenly had a smoking hole in the weave.

“What are you talking about?” Arthur hadn’t jumped when the shot went off, but Lenny did. Arthur licked his lips, a bead of sweat clearing a bit of grime off the corner of his face.

Esther thought she was at the right angle, “Arthur,” she croaked, voice full of tension and begging. He looked at her, flinty blue eyes as intense as they ever were, and she flicked her eyes to the floor and back to his again. His face changed subtly into one of worry.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled the trigger.

Esther heard Martelli scream in pain, and then a second shot go off, and a _crump_ as he crashed into the wall. Arthur was on her in an instant, “What the hell was that?”

“Martelli wasn’t very smart,” Esther opened her eyes and saw the henchman sitting against the wall, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, eyes closed. “Get me out of these cuffs, would you?”

Arthur pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her hands. She angled the cuffs toward her and turned away, shoulders hunched against the possibility of a miss. She needn’t have worried, though. She felt the cuffs give-way, and she pulled her hands in front of her gratefully.

“What the hell happened, Esther?” Lenny helped her to her feet. Every bit of her ached.

“Long story,” She huffed, and picked up the pistol that the thug had dropped from beneath the desk.

“I’m getting fucking sick and tired of hearing that,” Arthur growled.

“Is this really the time?” Esther couldn’t help but laugh. It was amazing how much better she felt when there was a gun in her hand. Relief. It flooded her and buoyed her up, though her stomach and hip hurt, “They were going to kill me.” She leaned over Martelli and fished out the money clips from his jacket, and the ledger from his hands.

“For helping us?” John asked, looking between all three of them.

“I guess,” Esther huffed, picking up Martelli’s ridiculous golden pistol, “No good deed, eh?”

“Jesus,” John shook his head, “Where did you find her, Arthur?”

“Me?” Arthur snapped.

“Let’s get out of here,” Esther said, “What’s the plan?”

Arthur looked like he might plotz, “The _plan_ is Lenny escorts you downstairs, back to the boat. John, you’re with me.”

Esther was already shaking her head, “I know this house ten-times better than you, and I want Bronte just as badly.”

“Could you not argue with me, right now?” Arthur was nearly shouting.

“There’s an army between you and him!”

“Shut up! Both of you!” John waved an arm in a slicing motion, cutting them off, “Esther, you go with Lenny. I don’t want to hear it!” He yelled as she opened her mouth to argue.

“Fine,” Esther said hotly, “He’s upstairs, probably hiding in his bathtub. Watch the corners, that’s where his boys are likely to find you.”

“Thank you,” John huffed a sigh of relief, and turned to walk out the door until he realized Arthur wasn’t with him.

Instead he was staring at Esther, expression somewhere between hatred and something English-speaking humans have not yet put a name to. Then he turned and strode out, leaving John to look exasperated and muttering behind him.

“Come on,” Lenny took her arm and pulled her along, and she followed. The house was a battleground, with glass and bits of furniture lying everywhere. She sneezed, the dust kicked up with all the commotion getting to her eyes and making them water. All she could smell was gun smoke. It wasn’t her home, not anymore. It was something vastly different. She didn’t even think about running to her room to collect her things – that was a whole lifetime ago, with different problems.

As Lenny raised his pistol to shoot at some goons, so did she, not pausing to see if she recognized any faces.

“Which way did you come in?” She shouted, picking up her skirts and running after him.

“Out the back, we have a boat at the docks.”

“Ha! I see you took a good idea and ran with it-.” Suddenly she was shoved from behind onto her face, the ledger went flying, and she heard Lenny screaming her name. Numbness bloomed over her back. As Esther struggled to find her arms and get them under her, a white-hot coal was growing in intensity in her side. The pain arced through her, twisting her face involuntarily. She groaned, unable to speak for the pain.

Lenny was beside her, “Oh my god, oh my god, Esther! Bill! Help! I need help!” His arms were around her, trying to pull her to her feet. She struggled upright, wondering what on earth had hit her hard enough to make her tumble.

“I’m okay,” she wheezed, the breath having been driven from her.

Lenny didn’t seem to hear her, “Come on, just a little farther!”

The night was cool on her face, but it did little to calm the fire that was raging just above her hip, “Fuck, it hurts,” She moaned, mouth filling with saliva. Was she going to puke? Gunfire still raged around them. She pressed a hand to her back and felt the wetness. She was bleeding. Christ, if she was bleeding, she must be hurt real bad. Something caught her eye as Lenny dragged her forward, her arm slung over his shoulder. She raised her pistol and fired at a shadowy figure. Lenny turned and fired his pistol at it too.

  
“Shit, good shot, Esther, come on. I’ve got you.” She groaned wordlessly, whimpering, growling with the pain. “Bill! Over here!” Lenny yelled, almost hysterical.

“What the hell?” It was that annoying little voice she hated so much.

“Esther’s been shot! Can you carry her?”

She’d been shot? Well, that would certainly make sense.

“Ain’t that the Bronte girl?” His voice was whiny and skeptical, but his voice was always whiny and skeptical.

“She – Jesus, - she helped us escape today, Bill! Just fucking help me! I’ll explain everything to Dutch later!”

“Shit, okay kid, take it easy, where she hit?”

The voices were the only hint she was still conscious. At some point she had closed her eyes and it felt like a herculean effort to open them again. Everything hurt and pulsed. She could feel the wetness in her back make spongy, damp sounds, and it disgusted her. The fire in her hip didn’t abate. At some point she had dropped her gun – Martelli’s gun, the bastard.

She felt the weight be relieved off her feet, though the piece of coal stuck in her side didn’t like the new movement one bit. She moaned again, animalistic even in her own ears. A sliver of drool snuck out of the corner of her mouth, but the pain was so fierce she didn’t even care.

“Now who the hell is this lady?” Someone new asked. She felt the hard bits of wood on her back as she set down, but it wasn’t the wood of a desk. This was damp, covered in that kind of small, weird lichen. The smell of the swamp hit her. They were on a boat. Yes, that’s what Lenny, John, Arthur had said, hadn’t they? They would use a boat as their get-away.

After that, it was like dozing, except for the constant presence of fierce, intolerable pain. Male voices and male arguing. Someone calling her name. Someone picking her up again, with the smell of gun smoke on their clothes, and in the background, she could have sworn she heard her mother singing her favorite lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, handcuffs stopped being easy to break out of sometime in the late 1870s with the invention of the double-lock. The handcuff jimmying you see in the movies is bullshit. There's a reason magicians hide a key somewhere on them. https://tihk.co/blogs/news/14756441-a-history-of-handcuffs  
> #  
> Sweet rendition of “Byl Sobie Krol,” or the Polish lullaby that Esther sings to Jack chapter one and that this chapter and this fic is named after: https://youtu.be/sDKhOgc9Xq0?t=126  
> #  
> Also taking next week off. In August you can just call me Daniel, bc I'll be BACK AT IT AGAIN IN THE WHITE VANS


	11. Dethroned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvk89PQHDIM

_"Give me your tired, your poor,_

_Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,_

_The wretched refuse of your teeming shore._

_Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,_

_I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"_

  * Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus



_#_

_Be brave, sweetness,_ her father gently pried her arms from his legs. He smelled of cheap tobacco and shoe shine oil. Even to this day, she remembered that most keenly.

Her mother always smelled like fried foods. Perhaps it was the latkes, the kabanosy, the pierogis, all the stuff she could still taste from her earliest memories. Today, her mother did not smell like warm kitchen on a Saturday, however. She smelled of damp and mold from the apartment they had landed in immediately after they arrived. Her small family had slept on the floor, without the beds they were promised, and without cots, because her mother and father didn’t speak the English to buy them, not that they had the money, either.

Mother was crying. This is what upset her most. Her mother never cried. She was, as her father would occasionally mumble in prayer on the appropriate day, _a woman of valor._ This picture of misery before her was not what the chant described. The bottom of her mother’s skirt had not been completely dry in some days, and there were green and black stains at the hem. Her shirt was cinched tightly around her waist with a rope, more tightly than Estera, now _Esther_ , had ever seen. Her father had said, back home, that they would all grow fat in America. It was true, she saw more fat people here than she did in her village, but it seemed as if that was limited to the same kind of rich people as it was across the sea.

Estera did not like her new name, but her father said it was easier to be _Esther_ in this country. She did not know what that meant. It did not seem to be easier in this country, and her name didn’t seem to make a difference in this regard. Her mother hadn’t kept her name either. Her new one was Lilith, and Estera didn’t understand why the American’s were so fond of the tricky _th_ sound. This is a small price, her father kept telling them, now _Jacob_. A small price to pay for food in their bellies and freedom. To Estera’s mind, the small prices had been adding up, and besides, they were just as hungry here as they were back home. There were still angry men pounding at the door, though these men asked for money rather than her father’s books. It was true that no one looked at her father’s hat or her mother’s headscarf in the street, but was this so useful when she and her mother begged on street corners?

Lilit’s skin was pale and lined, the fly-aways escaping under the scarf that hid her hair. No one here seemed to mind. This was America, after all. Bury the traditions of the old country; your gods and demons cannot follow you here. That’s what her father liked to say. This was a fresh start. This was America, this was 1880, and the wealthy of this country were wealthier than any other class of man that had previously existed, and the poor were poorer than most could possibly fathom. Gone were the comfortable roles of the feudal lords of manors, the shoguns of states, the elders that could guide the villages; they were replaced by _men of industry,_ creatures hungry enough and desperate enough to climb to the top and stay there. In America, there was money to be made, if you were willing to work for it. Her father always reminded them of this.

Her hand was taken up by a stranger’s, a young woman Estera didn’t recognize. She wore a uniform and she looked at Estera with pity. Panic sprang into her throat, gut-wrenching terror and blind desperation, and her eyes stung, “Baba,” she called at her parent’s retreating backs. But there wasn’t enough air in her throat, and it only came out as a hoarse whisper. She couldn’t breathe. Her parents didn’t hear her. She sucked in breath, trying to scream, but all that was coming out was little whispers. The two silhouettes grew blurry with fog, diffused and strange. “Mama!” They did not hear. Their shadows merged into one retreating darkness, then disappeared.

…

Esther woke with a gasp, her heart thundering in her chest and shock radiating into her fingertips. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where her parents were. Where had they gone? Had they really left her here? In this place?

Where was she? Esther tried to sit up but found pain and soreness radiated up through her stomach as she did so. _Fuck_ had she been hit by a _train?_ Memories came first as flashing feelings, panic, relief, panic again. Esther groaned as she lay back down. “She’s up!” A child screamed, jumping up. Esther flinched, tamping down on the fear that rose again in her. He ran out of the room with his shoes clattering over the floorboards, into the light outside, “She’s up! she’s up! …” His voice disappeared. She breathed, focusing on the pain.

Her throat was parched and tender. There weren’t any water pitchers next to the cot where she lay, but there was a small pile of gauze and a bottle of moonshine.

The smell of the swamp pressed in around her. Must, mold, and the smell of plaster heated in the sun. It looked like an old plantation house, long-abandoned. Living things grew out of the walls. Esther lifted her head more slowly this time and looked around the room. It wasn’t small, but it wasn’t nice. Sun slanted through the cloudy, filthy windows, and a breeze cut through the gaping holes were windows were missing.

Oh, right. The shoot-out. Bronte chaining her to his desk. Guido Martelli, bleeding against the wall. Lenny taking her to the boat. This must be the gang’s hide-out. Shit. She could be in trouble.

Esther turned over slowly in the cot and experimentally placed a hand towards the small of her back. She could feel the bandages there, and that seems to be where the dull ache originated. She was shot. That much she remembered. But she didn’t feel hot. She didn’t feel disoriented. No infection yet. She could feel her toes. Nothing seemed seriously damaged. How the hell did that happen?

The answer came a minute later, when Arthur, an elderly man in a vest, and a Black man she didn’t recognize came through the door. Arthur hung back, watching the other two, eyes carefully avoiding her. Her heart did something funny, looking at him like this. _What’s his problem?_

“Was that Jack?” She asked hoarsely, barely above a whisper. She rolled onto her back again, breathing carefully.

The elderly man smiled. He seemed familiar, and the smile seemed genuine, “He’s been at your bedside since you came to us. Finally, a captive audience for him to read to.” Where had she seen him before?

“Ma’am,” the other stranger said, and for the first time she noticed a doctor’s bag in his hand, “My name is Dr. Alphonse Renaud, I practice medicine. May I check the wound?”

Esther didn’t want a strange man poking at her. Especially now, when she felt particularly vulnerable. She looked at Arthur, who finally tilted his face towards her and nodded. “Sure, I suppose,” Esther tried to relax.

He was very businesslike, and only pulled up her shirt – already partially unbuttoned and pulled out of her skirt, she saw… Wait, who’s skirt was she wearing? He pressed a hand to the skin around her hip, “Doesn’t feel warm. I don’t believe infection has set in. Does this hurt?” He asked, pressing toward her front.

Esther shrugged, “It’s a little tender.”

“Roll over for me. That’s it, just nice and easy. Now, does this hurt?”

“Like a bitch, but feels bruised. Say, did one of you kick me into the boat?”

“That doesn’t really seem our style,” the elder man said, eyes on her face, “though we may have accidentally hit something in our haste to get you here. You were on death’s door, my dear.” Hosea. That’s who he was. From the party. God, that was forever ago.

“No, I’m afraid that’s my doing. I had to, ah, fish around a bit with my equipment,” Dr. Renaud said.

“Felt like I got kicked by a horse,” Esther groused.

“The tissue is tender, but healing,” he finished, helping her roll back over.

“Do any of you have some water? My throat’s killing me,” Esther asked. She hated how plaintive her voice was in her own ears.

Hosea, “I imagine so. You were awake for most of the surgery, spitting and screaming all of us. You don’t remember?” Dr. Renaud said he’d ask for some clean water from the camp cook. She tried to remember which one that was in Jack’s cast of colorful characters. It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like years. She’d surely written it down someplace in a notebook, but there was no chance of her getting back to the mansion to retrieve it. Not like this, and not with Saint Denis in uproar, as it surely was.

Esther shook her head slowly, “Last thing I remember is Lenny dragging me to the pier. Did anyone else get hurt?”

“No, everyone in the gang’s fine. Just fine. I’m Hosea, by the way, since our mutual friend here doesn’t seem very interested in manners this afternoon.” Arthur shuffled uncomfortably.

“Is he ever interested in manners?” Esther cracked a smile, and Hosea returned it. “Was I really awake for the whole thing? I’m assuming you got the bullet out.”

“Oh, we surely did, but at great personal cost. John has a black eye, and I have the new personal nickname of schmendrik _.”_

Esther snorted.

“What does that mean, by the way? You weren’t speaking English for a good portion of the whole mess.”

“Ass-for-brains. It’s an old word. I apologize, I’m afraid I wasn’t quite myself,” Esther waved a hand.

Hosea made a gesture to brush the concern off, “Think nothing of it, though I think some will enjoy that nickname a bit too much.”

Renaud returned with a tin cup, and Esther gratefully drained it after he helped her sit up. It was like ambrosia. Never had she tasted better water. “Thanks,” she coughed.

The doctor nodded, “Now, Mr. Matthews, I don’t believe there’s much more for me to do here. I’d be happy to call again in a week, see how she’s doing.”

Hosea put a hand on the man’s shoulder and steered him toward the door, “Of course, we’re grateful you can make the trip.” Arthur moved to follow them, but Esther caught Hosea giving him a look, and he stayed put.

He took his hat off, worked it in his hands, then put it back on. Esther watched the movement carefully, trying to guess what his thoughts were. It was bizarre, looking back, how confident she was in talking to him that night at Mayor Lemieux’s party. Now she was at a bit of a loss. Maybe it was because she was tired. Maybe it was because she was off-kilter, put there by a nightmare about her parents. She hadn’t had one of those in a long time.

“What are you thinking about?” She finally asked, deciding on the most honest question she could come up with.

Arthur looked at her, surprised. It was the first time he’d met her eyes since he walked in. They were such pretty eyes, in a pretty face. She wondered if he knew how pretty it was, or if he just bumbled through life breaking hearts, none-the-wiser. Did he still hate her?

“I… uh,” Arthur seemed equally at a loss. “There’s something you should know. I don’t know if I’m the right one to tell you.” Something complicated happened to his face. Was that a grimace?

“Alright,” Esther said carefully. “I suppose you better just tell me.”

“Bronte… He’s dead.”

Esther blinked, “You sure?”

Something about the way he nodded his head, remembering something that gnawed at him, made her realize he was telling the truth, “Pretty sure.”

She looked away, to the ceiling of the run-down plantation house. She breathed, trying to understand the emotions that were there and not there.

“Dutch killed him. We all saw it,” Arthur continued, seemingly unsure what to make of her silence. That was fair. She didn’t know what to make of it herself.

“Thank you for telling me,” Esther said carefully, searching for emotion in her voice that might give her a hint as to how she should be feeling. “Really, I appreciate it.”

“He was a no good bastard…” Arthur was struggling, she could hear it, “But… I know what it is to… I know what it is to be loyal and, you know…”

“Arthur.”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate it. I do. But… I think right now I just want to be alone.”

“Sure… I’ll, uh… I’ll go look for more bandages.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

Esther watched the sun’s rays lance over her, over the wall, over her head, up onto the ceiling, before night set in with the screeching of the bugs and frogs and all the things that slithered and creeped. Then she decided to cry.

…

The man who fed her noodles and sauce, _spaghetti_ he called it, was unlike any other man she’d ever met. His language was not of her parent’s, which was like the clacking and grinding of stones. This was a language that followed the even beats of a swallow’s wings, bouncing in the air, twisting and turning with ease.

He was like a character out of one of her father’s stories, one of the good ones that her mother forbade him from sharing. He was loud and he laughed a lot. He watched her a lot. She didn’t like the feeling of his eyes on her, but he didn’t hurt her, just watched her eat, which she did with great speed and urgency. She can’t remember a time when she was allowed to eat until her belly hurt.

She couldn’t remember a time when she had a bed all to herself – let alone a _room_ to herself. The isolation was terrifying, and she begged one of the maids to sleep with her that first night. She couldn’t remember a time when the clothes she wore were _new,_ not just new to her but _really new,_ never worn by anyone else. It seemed almost wasteful for her to wear. She had more toys than she knew what to do with. She had toys that she didn’t even understand how to play with; a rocking horse and a stack of books she couldn’t read.

But she would be taught to read. The man in the funny hat promised her. He promised her that she’d go to school and she’d eat three times a day, and made fun of her for doubting him. Her wonder grew as he continued to fulfill his promises. He was the man who held the world.

She _loved_ him for it, as fiercely as any young girl could. He was the first grown-up to take her seriously, to challenge her and expect excellence of her. It made her victories like heaven and her failures all the more crushing. She wasn’t awarded with success at every turn – but just enough to give her a taste, and push herself farther and farther until she was taut as a bow string. But she did not break. She learned to control and release the energy, focusing it into whatever she wanted.

Her father had abandoned her, her mother had let him, but _Bronte…_ He was the most powerful man in Saint Denis, and he had chosen _her._ He said as much. He had chosen _her_ to be his heir, and that _meant_ something. It wasn’t the food or the clothes, she came to realize. It was what these things _represented_ that she grew to crave and desire. Her family had been driven from their home by angry men and hunger, driven like a fox beneath horses’ hooves. They had clung like rats to rigging on the boat, stuck in the mire of their own filth. They had been hungry like no human could forget. But _here,_ in America, she was powerful. She would never allow herself to be hungry like that ever again. And Bronte had given that to her: Not just the power, but the _vision_ to see it, and the _knowledge_ to claim it. It would be one thing to set her up like a dotted-upon daughter, with an allowance and a bit of schooling. But Bronte had seen something in Esther and pushed her to accept it. Whatever else, she owed that to him.

…

Jack was thrilled to have Esther back. He pestered her to read with her voices and to let him read to her. Far be it from Esther to say no – it wasn’t as if she could do much else, stuck to her cot in the main room of this aging house. She complained to Jack after the fifth time he read her the story about the boy and his dog that he should make-up new stories. This seemed a revelatory concept, one he was eager to try, and agreed he’d practice his letters more to get the story out.

Lenny also seemed happy to have Esther in camp, though he seemed more glad that she lived than anything. He would visit her now and again to share a bit of gossip or news. Charles also seemed glad that she was healing well, but his gladness was, as always, muted slightly. He didn’t seem like a man who spoke or shared his thoughts without being asked, and Esther knew from experience nothing escaped his keen eye.

Unfortunately, that was the extent of the warmth she was given. Arthur did not see her again after his little announcement, and when he climbed the stairs to his room he didn’t even spare a glance towards her. That pricked Esther. She could understand why he wouldn’t be her biggest fan at the moment, what with Bronte and her lying, but he was dead now and she clearly posed no threat while sitting on the bed. Dutch, their merry band’s leader, came to speak with her once, promising that she’d be righted then sent on her way… _and out of our hair, and without telling a soul where they were,_ was the bit left unsaid. Hosea telegraphed to her the same message. They were both polite and very accommodating with Dr. Renaud’s fees, but they weren’t going to let her hang around. Esther would need to move on, and leave the gang in peace. She understood that.

But it wasn’t like she had anywhere to go.

She toyed with the idea of staying with the Black moonshiners in Lemoyne, the ones she had established business contacts with before Bronte’s operation was destroyed, and getting her footing there while she figured out what was left for her in the city. That was the smart thing to do. It would be tough, working back up the ladder, but she could do it.

The idea filled her with anxiety and she didn’t know why. This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? A chance to build her own legacy?

On the third day a blustery woman named Mrs. Grimshaw – she didn’t seem to have a first name – threw some sewing down in front of her and asked her to get to work while she lay on her back. The other women in camp whom Esther had caught glimpses of seemed to take this as an indication that Esther was now fair-game, and clustered around her mere minutes after Grimshaw had left.

“I’m afraid I don’t know very much of sewing,” Esther admitted, trying to thread the needle. The pants she’d been assigned to hem stank and were patched a dozen times over, but that didn’t seem to matter. There was a split down their side, clean and without fraying, that must have come from a knife.

“Neither did I, when I first got here,” Tilly said, and helped show her. Tilly had introduced herself first, and then her friend, Karen. Mary-Beth and Abigail had crept in shortly after, with their own sewing to look busy with while they peppered her with questions.

Esther surmised that everyone in camp knew she had been one of Bronte’s lackeys, but it seemed – from the way they formed their questions – none of them knew how high in the organization she ranked. “How do you know all this?”

“Lenny’s been running his mouth,” Tilly grumbled.

“We don’t get much excitement here in camp,” Karen didn’t bother to keep up the façade of sewing. She tugged at a loose curl over her eye, “You showing up bleeding all over Arthur was the most exciting thing to happen since…” And she slid her eyes over to Mary-Beth, and changed direction, “the O’Driscolls found us.” Esther filed that look away.

“And you were screaming up a storm, we thought you was a witch,” Mary-Beth said breathily, picking out a stray thread in the quilting she was working on.

“ _You_ thought she was a witch, you ditzy girl,” Karen snorted.

Esther shook her head in confusion, “I’m sorry, say again?”

Abigail spoke up this time, “You were spouting off in some language nobody could understand. Sometimes it was English, sometimes other things.”

“Ah,” Esther forgot to leave slack in the thread as she stitched up the hole in the pants, and had to sew through it again, “That’d be the Yiddish and the Polish. Hosea said I’d called him schmendrik _._ ”

“Schmendrik,” Mary-Beth smiled, “I like the way it rolls around, you know?”

Esther returned the smile, “Hope I didn’t do anything else too embarrassing. I woke up wearing someone else’s skirt.”

“Oh, that’s an old one of mine, don’t worry about it,” Tilly waived a hand. “Your old one was ruined. We scrapped it, I hope you don’t mind.”

“We had to let the doctor have at your back,” Abigail flinched at the memory, “You was a real mess, Esther. We thought for sure you were gunna die on our poker table. It was real tense, there. Arthur nearly got in a fight with Lenny.”

“Wait,” Esther set the pant-leg down, “Arthur tried to fight Lenny? Why?”

“Sure did,” Tilly cocked an eyebrow at Esther, “Lenny was real upset, blames himself for getting you hurt. Arthur blames him too, or did, though I think Hosea talked to both of them.”

“Blames Lenny? It was a gunfight, wasn’t Lenny’s fault.”

Karen laughed, “Tell that to Mr. Pissy Pants,” she whispered, pointing a finger at the ceiling, ostensibly Arthur’s bedroom, “He was hollerin’ at Lenny while trying to hold you down so Renaud could get the pincers deep enough into your back to get the bullet and not tear anything, Lenny was hollerin’ about how he didn’t see Bronte’s man, you were bleedin’ all over the place so Arthur’s hands slipped on you and Dr. Renaud almost tore a new hole in you.” She shook her head, and Esther wondered how many people were witness to the spectacle of her being poked at by the doctor. “I’ve seen that man lose his temper a few times and it’s always scary.”

“Huh,” Esther shrugged, “Well, he’s hardly spoken to me since I woke up, maybe he’s transferred the blame of me getting shot to me. I swear I don’t understand him.”

“What a stupid thing to do,” Mary-Beth agreed, “Not your fault you got shot.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Tilly pursed her lips and shared a look with Abigail, something Esther couldn’t decipher.

“What?” Esther had forgotten all about sewing.

Tilly seemed to suddenly relish being the owner of an exclusive, new bit of gossip, “I think he likes you and got himself all frightened. I mean, he hasn’t ever brought a girl back to camp before,” Tilly said in that knowing voice, “Say, how long were you working with Arthur? You think he could be sweet on you?”

Her heart stuttered. Esther blinked, remembering the sound the bed made in that hotel in Valentine and shoving the memory away, “Maybe, why?”

Tilly shrugged, “Arthur tends to set his mind on a thing and not let it go. Maybe he decided he was sweet on you, then you show up half-dead, that rattles him and now he’s trying to convince you he don’t want you no more.”

“That’s idiotic,” Karen made a face.

“May be right though,” Mary-Beth sighed, “Men can be… difficult.”

“I think love is difficult,” Abigail huffed, then glanced up quickly, “Not that he’s in love with you.”

Esther wrinkled her nose at the thought, “Hope not, for his sake.” The thought of a man falling in love with her after a roll in the hay and a couple of good laughs seemed desperate and… stupid. Like those silly romances that go for a nickel at the bookshop.

“So you don’t like him back?” Karen asked.

“First, we don’t know that he likes me, he might just be socially inept, like any other man,” Esther said softly, aware of the thin and rotting walls, “Second, it’s not that… I just… We don’t know each other real well, except that I worked for Bronte and he’s been riding with Dutch for a while, and it doesn’t seem real smart to start anything we can’t finish.”

Mary-Beth giggled, “Oh, like a forbidden romance! Like in that Shakespeare play!”

“Yes, except they both die at the end, remember?” Esther said pointedly. She’d always thought _Romeo & Juliette _a mediocre work of Shakespeare’s portfolio. She wasn’t totally convinced it wasn’t satire. She’d always like _Coriolanus_ best. Saint Denis, however, didn’t often get to see the master’s work performed, so she’d been limited simply to reading them. It had always been a dream of hers to sponsor a troupe, just like Queen Elizabeth, to bring them around to the city more often. _Best of luck with that now,_ she thought ruefully.

“Could you imagine it?” Karen cracked a dry laugh, “Arthur in _love_?”

“He was in love with that Mary girl,” Tilly’s eyebrow raised in a distant sort of disapproval. “An ex-fiancée,” She explained to Esther, “Didn’t end well.”

“She’s still sending him letters, after all this time,” Abigail snorted.

“You’ll have to win him over,” Mary-Beth’s eyes were distant as she said it though, building up the story in her mind.

Esther snorted, grinning, “I’m not going to degrade myself by attempting to win over anybody. I got a little pride.”

“More than a little.” And Karen and Abigail giggled at Tilly. Esther rolled her eyes.

“How’d it end badly?” She asked Mary-Beth, who she knew wouldn’t be able to resist filling out a story arc.

Mary-Beth’s face scrunched, “I’m not sure. He never talks about it. I just been told not to bring it up, by Hosea.”

“Pretty sure it was over him bein’ an outlaw an’ all,” Karen leaned back in her chair.

Tilly shook her head, “Little miss was too good for him. That’s all.”

Esther shrugged, “Well, don’t know her, but can’t blame her. What? If I’m just a girl whose best shot in life is settling with the right man, someone who’s not going to leave me in a family way or with a mortgage on the house, I would pick carefully too. I’m not an innocent girl, and I’m not looking to live a long or a good life. I reckon none of us are. So I like Arthur just fine. But I can’t fault her for wanting something better.”

“Arthur’s a good man,” Tilly said, hand on her hip.

“No denying that,” Esther waved her hand, “Doesn’t mean he isn’t going to get himself killed one of these days.”

“I want to live a long life,” Mary-Beth muttered, almost sulkily.

The former crime princess of Saint Denis laughed, but saw that the woman wasn’t joking. “Then what are you doing here for?”

The suddenly serious turn of the conversation put them on edge, which Esther hadn’t intended. She wasn’t any good at this. She had no practice at it.

Esther frowned, and Abigail reached over and patted her hand, “Don’t mind us. We hardly get any new thing to gossip about, this’ll keep us busy for a week and then we’ll move on.” Her tone poked fun at Esther, and she had to appreciate the effort the girls were going through to keep her sane.

They visited a few more times, bringing up Arthur again seemingly just to torture her in good-natured teasing, but still more gossip and background on the rest of the camp members. Abigail seemed to take a particular shine to Esther. She suspected that had something to do with keeping Jack occupied. None of the other members of camp seemed to pay her much mind, and it occurred to Esther that they might be keeping an eye on her somehow, to make sure she didn’t get up to trouble. They weren’t keeping her prisoner, but aside from the women and Lenny, the gang certainly weren’t opening up their arms either. And that was most of the women. Sadie Adler, whom Esther learned about through Abigail, eyed her suspiciously every time she passed through the room, which Esther ignored. She didn’t seem interested in making friends, and Esther wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move. Molly O’Shea also didn’t seem very interested in her, though Esther suspected this was more due to anxieties laying elsewhere than actual malice. She could hear Dutch and her fighting upstairs some nights, and wondered at how they had ever fit together.

It wasn’t any of her business. It’s not like she’d be staying much longer. As soon as her wound was healed, she’d be gone.

But when Dr. Renaud returned the next week, he said she still wasn’t in any shape to travel.

“You don’t understand,” she could hear his voice outside through the cracked and peeling walls, speaking to Hosea, “She can’t be moved. Not yet. Getting the bullet out had caused some damage, I’d say she need a month of rest.”

“A month?” Dutch’s tone was incredulous, “We can’t have an extra mouth to feed for a month.”

Esther wasn’t thrilled at the idea either. She wanted to use a bathroom other than a chamber pot, and have a real bath. Besides, she’d noticed something a day after she’d woken up, and she wasn’t thrilled at the idea of confronting her hosts when she was laid up, but this _was_ a famous nest of thieves, after all.

When Dutch and Hosea passed into the room next, striding their way over to the stairs, she called out, “Sirs? A word?”

Dutch looked more surprised than annoyed, and shared a look with Hosea. Hosea kept his face friendly. They walked over, Dutch using his booming speaking voice that grated on Esther, “What can I do for our house guest?”

“Is the money from my old skirt not enough to cover my board?” She asked sweetly, keeping the edge out of her voice, “I certainly hope you didn’t throw it away.”

Hosea’s eyes widened, and but Dutch’s face was cool, “What money?”

“The money I stole from Bronte, before I was shot.” Her face was impassive, voice unjudgmental, “I think it would make a very poor band of thieves who didn’t check pockets before they threw expensive clothing like that away, wouldn’t you?”

“I got it.” The voice came from behind the doorframe, and surprised all of them. Their heads snapped to Arthur, leaning sheepishly around the corner. Had he been listening the whole time? When had he crept in the house? “I, uh, was holding it for you, miss.”

 _Miss?_ She gave him a look she hoped communicated exactly how unimpressed she was, “May I have it back, so I can pay these nice men I just accused of stealing from me?”

Arthur walked in, looking like a kicked dog, digging through his satchel.

“In fairness, it wasn’t unfair for you to assume,” Hosea said diplomatically, with something else tinging his voice.

Dutch was less impressed, “Indeed,” though his tone implied that it was _very much_ unfair to assume.

Esther reached out a hand, and Arthur gave her four neat rolls of cash. It was all there. She unwrapped one, in front of the thieves, and smoothed out a crisp $100 bill, which still smelled of the bank. She handed it over, “Bronte always believed in currency more liquid than gold bars. I think that should cover my stay?”

Hosea was the first one to make a move and took it, bobbing his head, “I think it should.” There was a small smile on his face.

“I’m afraid my skills for sewing and cleaning aren’t exactly in top shape. But I’m good for other things. I can help the gang make money, while I lay on my ass here.”

Hosea’s eyebrow quirked, “Awful kind of you.”

“I wasn’t just one of Bronte’s little henchmen, I was his ward. Just like Arthur here is to you,” Arthur looked away at that, and she wondered for the millionth time what his damn _problem_ was, “I have valuable information about his old operations than can help make a little cash. Surely that would help with some things.”

Dutch was staring at Arthur, something working behind his eyes that Esther didn’t like, and his voice was ice cold when he said, “Thank you for your contribution, ma’am, but I think we’ll handle the rest of it,” and he turned on his heel and left. Hosea looked after him, then at Esther.

“His ward, eh?” Hosea tucked the crisp bill into his back pocket, “Listen, Esther. I don’t know if the girls have told you, but we’re not in the best of straits right now. I think lying low, not making any trouble, like you’ve been doing, is the best way to help us. Really,” He leaned forward and put a hand on her shoulder, and his words weren’t unkind. He followed Dutch up the stairs.

Esther looked at Arthur, “What was that all about? Why did you have my money?” Arthur seemed to be having complicated thoughts, from the look on his face, “And why have you been ignoring me? Dammit, Arthur, come back!” But he was already gone out the door. “Shit!”

A day later, Abigail and Mary-Beth came in to help her to the campfire. She had complained about needing to get up and stretch, and with the prospect of her staying another month with them looming in the two leader’s minds, it seemed they wanted to encourage a speedy recovery.

The two women helped settle her into the dirt and leaned her up against the log the group used as a bench. New faces peered at her. She recognized Javier’s, and the old man must be Uncle. A man with a great mustache and a ridiculous hat approached her with a bowl of stew, “Our new house-guest!” His voice was cheery and a little rough. This must be the mysterious cook that had been making her meals all this time.

“Something like that,” Esther thanked him and accepted the stew.

Javier glanced at her from tuning his guitar. He was guarded. The set of his shoulders was cagey. Mary-Beth ignored him, talking loudly about the newest novel she was reading. It sounded like smut to Esther, but then, her tastes were usually more austere than most. But her happy tone rang false. Things were tense, and Esther didn’t understand why. Like an animal sensing a bad storm, she braced herself.

“Well, look-ee here,” Micah swaggered up to them. “How you settlin’ in? Hope things have been comfortable for ya.” There was a mocking edge there that Esther didn’t miss. She glanced up at him, and noticed Arthur a few yards back, stilling with two dead turkeys in his hand on his way to Pearson’s wagon.

“Setting in just fine, thank you, Micah.”

“That’s good. Wouldn’t want our guest to experience any sort of discomfort in your vulnerable state.”

“Don’t be gross, Micah,” Mary-Beth groaned. Esther contemplated that particular phrasing. It wasn’t friendly. It was like a cat, pawing at a half-dead mouse. She didn’t have many friends here, and it seemed that some folks weren’t interested in making friends.

“I’m just sayin’, we all saw her nearly bleed out a week ago, she needs to keep her strength up.”

“My strength is up just fine, don’t you worry.”

“I do worry. I worry for the good of this gang, with another mouth to feed.” His eyes had a manic quality she didn’t like at all.

“Do you often threaten wounded women trying to eat their dinners?”

“Now why do you think I’m threatening you? I’m just stating a fact.”

“Micah, take your hand off my shoulder or lose it.” Esther had drawn up every shred of venom in herself, packaged it in the tone she used against men tied down and missing fingers, and flung it at him.

Micah moved his hand from where he’d rested it on Esther’s shoulder as if it were hot, “Not a very nice thing to say to the folks who saved you.”

She didn’t speak. Esther just stared at him with the same dead eyes Bronte would give to a man he was going to have shot in an alleyway later that week, and the cowboy shrugged, as if there were no pleasing some people, and walked away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Arthur continue past them, dead birds swinging in his hand.

 _Coward._ She thought.

Arthur knew Esther could handle herself, especially with a tit like Micah, but the fact that he would sprint up his stairs to ignore her shouts after him, yet pause like that, rankled her. She knew what a man with a little fear in his heart looked like. He needed a boot in the ass, she decided. Because Esther wasn’t going to wait for him.

…

A few days later, when Lenny visited her, she pulled him down to sit on the cot beside her.

“Lenny, I’m going to go crazy if I don’t get off this bed,” she whispered.

“Esther, you got to heal up-.”

“No, I mean I got work.”

Lenny’s eyes went round, “Wait, how?! You’ve been laying here… You sure Esther? I’m pretty sure Dutch-.”

“You wanna be stuck on guard duty tomorrow or are you going to help me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The New Colossus (1883) was written Emma Lazarus, a Jewish woman whose life was dedicated to helping refugees in New York. You probably recognized the poem as what’s inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty.  
> #  
> Mary is always kinda harshed-on in this fandom, which I don’t think she deserves. I think Esther of all people would understand a woman choosing what was best for her long-term wellbeing.  
> #  
> FYI I’m a Shakespeare buff. Esther is 100 hundo percent Coriolanus-vibe.  
> #  
> I really needed last week off. Things have been nuts. FYI I'll probably do that again in a few weeks as I wrap this shit up!


	12. Fools and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Just wanted to let you know that overdose and abandonment is used as a plot point in this chapter, in a less-than-sensitive way. If you’re okay with spoilers and would rather know why it’s being used in this manner, it’s based off of this con: https://www.npr.org/sections/npr-history-dept/2015/02/12/385310877/how-scams-worked-in-the-1800s  
> Also, a racial slur. God this chapter wasn’t meant to be a heavy one?  
> Skip to the line break to avoid it and get to the good stuff.

Lenny managed to convince Mary-Beth to join them, though admittedly it didn’t take very much effort. She was restless and eager for work outside of sewing. Esther also called in a favor from Abigail, mustering up all the goodwill she had garnered babysitting Jack. “We’ll need you to cover for us, while we’re gone. Just tell whoever asks that Mary-Beth wanted to have a girl’s evening and take a bath at the lake.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow, wry look on her face. Esther had heard her calling after John around camp, and knew the woman didn’t have much room for nonsense.

“Alright,” she acquiesced, “But what if something goes wrong?”

“Then it’s not like you won’t know where to find me. And it’s not like I can get very far with my insides all torn up.”

“I don’t know, Esther,” Abigail’s voice was low, “It’s awful risky. And you won’t be makin’ any friends with Dutch. He wants you gone anyways.”

“Exactly, so what have I got to lose?”

Abigail worked something over in her mind, mouth thinning as she pulled at a loose thread on her skirt.

“What is it?”

Abigail glanced up and leaned over, craning her neck to see if anyone was outside the front doors, then leaned down to whisper to Esther, “You might get Arthur in trouble again.”

“What?” Esther was so surprised she didn’t keep her voice low, and Abigail made an irritated gesture. “When did I get Arthur in trouble?” she whispered.

“I’m surprised none of the other girls told you. When you… first got here, Arthur vouched for you, said that you weren’t nobody important to Bronte, so it was alright that you knew where we were camped.”

“Why’d he say a stupid thing like that?” Esther made a face. The lie didn’t make any sense. But, all things being fair, he wasn’t as practiced at lying as Esther was.

Abigail sighed, and again glanced at the door, “Thing’s ain’t been so lucky lately. Jobs have gone wrong and we’ve got Pinkertons and O’Driscolls after us, they’re another gang. They attacked us here, and killed one of our boys. Almost killed the rest of us too,” she shuddered at the memory, “Dutch has been real jumpy. When you showed up, Dutch was mad. Said we couldn’t afford to take you in right now. Arthur spoke on your behalf.”

Esther sat with that knowledge, flushing as she remembered the look of flat irritation on Dutch’s face when she’d said she was Bronte’s ward… And she’d been so insistent on helping them… Jesus, no wonder Arthur was angry with her and Dutch was so suspicious. But Arthur hadn’t been speaking to her! “How was I to know?” Esther hissed, mad with herself and mad with Arthur.

Abigail put a hand on her shoulder, “I know, I know he ain’t been friendly with you. You didn’t know.”

“And now that I told Dutch who I am?”

Abigail shrugged, “He’s more angry with Arthur than you. It’s not like _you_ lied to him.” She studied the look on Esther’s face, “You still going through with this job?”

“Yeah, I think I have to now. If I come back with a bit of money… well, that won’t hurt anything, will it?”

She shrugged, “It might, depending.”

Esther was inclined to agree.

…

She thought about telling Arthur. That would be simplest, wouldn’t it? But every time she tried to flag him down from her cot, he ignored her and stomped up to his room. At first, she’d felt guilty, though not guilty enough to call off the job. Then, around the fourth time she’d called after him when he passed through the house, she’d felt angry. It felt like he was being childish and unfair. Fuck him, then, for ignoring her.

Early the next morning Lenny helped her onto the back of his horse. It was Friday, and Mary-Beth had subtly confirmed with Pearson that they didn’t need the wagon for anything that day, saying she was going to be taking herself and Esther for a bath out on the beach south of the Heartlands.

“Are you good to drive that thing?” Esther had asked her, and Mary-Beth shrugged, “I used to drive my uncle’s wagon when I was a little girl, how hard can it be?” Not an ideal response, but Lenny said he’d find her before she drove into a ditch while Esther pulled her con in Emerald Ranch.

When discussing potential hits, Lenny had crossed Rhodes off the list (too close to camp for cons to be pulled in, especially after the shootout) and Valentine (where they also might be recognized) and Esther had negated Saint Denis (where she was surely being looked for by Bronte’s enemies). He’d suggested Emerald Ranch. It was small, out of the way, and strangely middle-class. A perfect place for a small con

On the back of Lenny’s horse, her stomach twinged. She wasn’t well-enough for this kind of riding, and knew that by the time she pulled up to Emerald Ranch she wouldn’t have to pretend to be ill.

“Last chance,” Lenny muttered as verdant hills gave way to the tiny little settlement below.

Esther had given up all modesty and clung to Lenny, “Shut up, I’m no coward.”

Lenny laughed, “Never in a million years would someone accuse you of that.”

As perfect as if they had rehearsed it, Lenny dug his heels into the side of his horse and galloped down the main path through the ranch. With every hoofbeat Esther’s side felt like the bullet was still in her, rattling around and tearing at things, and stole the breath from her body.

When Lenny dumped her off in front of the main home, unceremoniously prying her hands from around his chest and pushing her off the back of his horse, the cry of pain was real. Heads of ranchers and homesteaders swiveled to watch the unknown Black man gallop away while the white woman writhed on the ground.

Someone ran to her, hands on her shoulders and cooing over her in moments. “Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me?”

She nodded, grimacing, “Please, sir, give me a moment… Do you know where I can stay the night?”

The rancher that was at her side and another man newly arrived tried to ask her why the man had left her like this, and she shook her head wordlessly, face crumpling, “Please, gentleman, I just need to rest and I’ll be out of your way.” There was more fuss. A rider was sent to try and track down the man, but Lenny had already circled back around towards Rhodes to wait for Mary-Beth.

Esther was ushered inside a tall, well-to-do house in the middle of the ranch, and the quality of the build surprised her. Lenny was right. There was money here. 

A woman opened the door to let them in, “Gracious, I saw the whole thing! Miss? Miss, are you alright?”

Esther nodded wordlessly, casting her eyes towards the woman quickly and glancing away. She was a woman only a few years older than Esther, but her dress was significantly older. A spinster? With some more acting, Esther convinced them to let her rest in a bedroom off the main hall, the entire time these strangers commenting on her pale face, and asking if she needed a doctor. If Esther was honest with herself, Dr. Renaud sounded like a good idea. She’d said her name was Catherine, that she needed a rest, she’d had a terrible fright, honestly, a small lie-down and she’d tell them everything.

Once they had left her alone to gossip amongst themselves about the strange woman in the guest bedroom, she took out the empty laudanum bottle Mary-Beth had snuck away from the Reverend. Esther had heard about him through the girl’s gossip. Lucky for her, the bottle was expensive and even had _Atkinson and Barker_ brand name molded into the glass. Perfect.

Esther’s heart was starting to beat rapidly. Her acting skills were good: But what if she got back to the Van der Linde gang and the money wasn’t enough? What if Abigail was right? She pinched herself to stay focused. She needed to be here, right now, or else this wouldn’t work.

She waited a few more minutes, listening for soft, muttering voices, before she turned to the small table beside the bed and knocked the lamp aside. It shattered pleasingly on the floor, shards of glass exploding to the far reaches of the room as oil drooled into the floorboards. She tossed the empty bottle of laudanum onto the bed.

Of course her rescuers came running. The door was flung open, the young woman in the door first, giving a small yelp at the sight of the lamp and the men gaping and looking to and fro around the room, trying to understand the danger they could save her from. “Gentle people,” Esther focused all her nervous energy into a single tear, which trailed dramatically down her cheek, and a mad grin, “I have need of a priest.”

“What?” The man who had picked her up in the street – he wore a tattered cowboy hat and a red bandana, seemed appalled and intrigued at the sudden and dramatic turn of events.

The young woman in the old gown was the first to notice the empty bottle on the bed. She seized it up, staring, then looking at Esther, color draining from her face. Esther smiled sadly.

“No,” she gasped, “No, Catherine, please…” She didn’t know what she was begging for. Awfully concerned for a stranger, Esther thought.

Esther laughed, and collapsed on the bed, “It’s better this way. Please, madam. Send for a priest. I wish to confess my sins,” her smile became sadder, “Of which there are many.”

“Oh miss,” The woman put a hand to Esther’s cheek, and Esther was surprised at the touch. She felt a pang of regret using this woman’s compassion in this way, and quashed it. Later. Regret was for later. The woman looked to the man who had come in after, in overalls and a gambler hat, “Find the doctor. No, find Seamus. A doctor will take too long.”

“A priest,” Esther shook her head, “Please, ma’am, let me go in peace…”

“No. I don’t know what drove you to this,” she clutched the empty bottle in her hand, “But you’re not ready to leave this world yet.”

“I don’t understand,” the man in the overalls blinked, confused at the moment between the women he was witnessing. She handed him the bottle, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion, then spread out in surprise. “Jesus. And she drank it all? Don’t she know she’ll die for it? What she go an’ do that for?”

“Of course she knew,” The woman hissed at him, as if he were an idiot.

“I had to!” Esther suddenly bawled, “I had to, I’m ruined, I’m ruined, I’m ruined,” she keened, turning into the young woman’s chest.

“This had something to do with that… that darkie,” spat the red-bandanaed man.

“Chris, get Seamus,” the woman implored, and he nodded and stormed out. The man in the coveralls was still standing, dumbfounded, with the empty bottle in his hand.

“There’s nothing left for me. My family won’t accept me. Not like… Not like this…” Esther sobbed. She found real tears were coming, and it surprised even herself.

There was a beat of silence, then the woman placed a cool hand on the back of her neck, “Oh, sister. I am so sorry.”

“He said he loved me!” Esther muttered, panting, “That rat bastard. I’m so stupid,” she ground a fist into the side of her head.

“Hush now,” the woman put her arms around Esther, and that twinge happened again in her chest. This woman was being very decent and Esther did not expect to con decent people. Perhaps that’s why the conning business never really appealed to her. But it appealed to her now, because she was desperate, and stuck of the middle of one. It was too late to turn back now.

“I don’t understand,” the man in coveralls muttered.

“She’s in a family way and the daddy just ran off, Liberty,” the woman snapped at him, less than thrilled that this was the help she had, “What more is there to understand?”

The man’s eyes grew even more surprised, and he looked at the empty bottle again.

“Go send for the priest, just in case,” the woman told him, and he left fairly quickly at that. She turned to Esther’s red face, “Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of you.”

Esther shook her head, “I can’t go nowhere. I got a cousin in Rhodes, but that’s it… And she just lost her husband… I, I wouldn’t want to burden her with this, with me, oh I’m so stupid…”

“You’re not stupid, Catherine, you’re going to be alright. My name’s Miriam.”

“You’re too kind, Miriam, but don’t send for the doctor, I… I’ve got no money to pay you.”

“Hush,” Miriam patted her hair, “None of that now, I told you, we’ll take care of you.” Esther crumpled her face and pressed into Miriam’s shoulder, hiding her bone-dry eyes.

A balding man with a shrewd face arrived following Chris, the man with the red bandana, and his eyes latched onto Esther immediately.

“Seamus, thank god. She’s taken a whole bottle of laudanum, do you have any-?”

“I got some syrup in the barn,” Seamus nodded quickly, eyes still on Esther but thinking fast. The eyes were shrewd and unforgiving. He’d be the one to worry about.

“Please, get it, I don’t know how long…” But Miriam didn’t even get to finish before Seamus was gone.

Esther found herself with her head on Miriam’s lap as they waited for the not-doctor to come back with the syrup. Esther steeled herself. _Fucking Christ on a bike, her back hurt._ She looked to Miriam, who nodded. “Let us _help you. Please_ Catherine.”

Seamus returned quickly, and offered her a spoonful, and she opened her mouth to take it like a child. As soon as the sickly, gummy liquid hit the back of her throat, she felt her bile rise. It wasn’t necessarily a horrid taste… but the texture of it, the burning it caused in her throat, was like swallowing a smelling salt. She coughed, horrible and ragged, and Seamus – ever resourceful – offered her a bucket to be sick in.

_This was a stupid idea,_ Esther cursed herself, and felt the small roll she’d had for breakfast rise and slide into the bucket. She cried in pain as she puked, miserable and despising herself. Her wound hurt something fierce. Miriam ushered the men out of the room and told Chris to return with a wet washcloth. She heard Seamus speaking softly to her just outside the door, but her own vomiting was too loud for her to hear. God, the hole in her side hurt. The clenching of her stomach muscles was painful, and she reflected dimly that this was even more painful than being shot.

After Esther had been cleaned up and tucked in with an old quilt, and a wet rag applied to her head, she grudgingly supplied the name of her cousin in Rhodes. The worst is over, she reminded herself. “Oh Miriam,” she sighed, “What am I going to do? I’ve been ever so much a fool.”

“That was fairly foolish,” Miriam cast a wry glance over her, but softened at Esther’s pained expression, “But no more so than any other woman this century. You aren’t the first. And you sure won’t be the last.”

Esther found that sleeping on a clean bed did wonders for her aching back. And she was tired, genuinely exhausted, by the horse ride up here, and the vomiting, and how much her back hurt. To Esther’s own surprise, she actually fell asleep after Miriam insisted she rest. She woke with a start when Miriam knocked on the door, “Hey, Catherine,” her smile was genuinely pleased. It broke Esther’s heart.

The sun’s rays were in a different position on the floor, now. Early evening. “Have you received word from my cousin?” Esther asked.

“They’re already here,” Miriam smiled, and Esther made a face as if to cry from relief.

“I can’t believe she came. I don’t deserve her.”

“Yes, your cousins came as soon as they heard,” Miriam helped her stand and walked with her to the door, arm around her shoulders.

“Both my cousins?” Esther asked in a voice she hoped wasn’t _too_ surprised. What the hell had Mary-Beth done?

“Yes, Mary-Beth and Tacitus are outside with a wagon. They seem eager to get you back,” Miriam pinched Esther’s shoulder good-naturedly, “See? Everything will work out. Oh, don’t let me forget,” She pulled out an envelope, and pressed it to Esther’s hand.

“What’s this?” Esther asked, as if she didn’t know.

“I sent the boys around. No, no, please, Catherine, take it. You need it more than us, surely.”

Esther pressed the envelope back, urgently, “No, no, Miriam. You saved my life. You saved… You saved my child’s life. I owe you so much more.”

Miriam shook her head, “It’s tough out there, for us girls, eh?” She tucked the envelope in Esther’s pocket of her skirt, “Take it. Send it back to me if it’s no use to you, or buy a nice crib with it. We’ve got to stick together.”

Esther pressed the back of her hand to a dry eye, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say thank you, and promise me you won’t be so foolish next time.”

Esther was suddenly keenly sorry she had not met Miriam under better circumstances, “I promise. Thank you, thank you, Miriam, I mean it.”

They shared a small smile as they walked through the front door, and Esther felt it freeze onto her face.

“Cousin Catherine! Oh lord in heaven, thank god you’re safe!” Mary-Beth descended on her, clutching at her shoulders, “Oh, thank you miss, when I got the telegraph I didn’t know what to think!”

“It’s alright. She’s still weak. Please, be careful with her, and watch out for her, she’s going to need all the help she can get.”

“That’s for sure,” Arthur’s tone was like ice from where he stood by the wagon. She had seen his eyes go flinty before. Now they positively sparked. A stone dropped in Esther’s stomach, and she stumbled and fell against Mary-Beth.

“Oh,” Mary-Beth supported her, but struggled against Esther’s weight.

“She’s still weak,” Miriam said, hand on Esther’s back. “Poor girl’s been through a lot.”

Suddenly arms were around Esther, and Arthur was picking her up like a bride. He turned without a word to Miriam and carried her to the wagon, where a bedroll had already been spread out, “That’s nothin’ compared to what’s coming to you,” he hissed in her ear.

“Thank you, Tacitus,” Esther said loudly. “Miriam, thank you, I won’t forget this!”

Arthur climbed into the driver’s seat on the buckboard, “Mary-Beth!” he called to where she was still effusively thanking the woman and Seamus, whose eyes were narrowed and frowning at Arthur.

By the time they were riding away from Emerald Ranch, the sun was edging toward the horizon. Esther sighed and rolled back onto her bedroll, exhausted and in pain. Jesus, could Charles make her some willow-bark tea when she got back?

“I cannot believe you!” Arthur suddenly exploded, and whipped the horses into a gallop. “After Dutch explicitly told you to sit yer ass in that bed and heal up.”

“He just didn’t want me causing trouble, and we didn’t,” Esther snapped, calling up from where she lay. The suspension on the wagon was built for several hundred pounds of goods, so the speed caused her to bounce and bob with the road. It was going to make her sick. “Mary-Beth?”

“I’m so sorry, Esther, he saw me at Rhodes post office and-.”

“You keep Mary-Beth out of this,” Arthur shouted over the galloping horses, he threw a nasty look behind him at Esther, “I know this was your doing.”

“Mary-Beth agreed!” Esther shouted back at the same time Mary-Beth shouted at him that it was her decision. “And slow down! Or you’ll kill me on the way back!”

“Dutch might kill you once we get back, way I see it, I’m saving him a bit of work.”

“Goddamnit Arthur, aren’t you even a little curious how much we got paid?” Esther dug around in her skirts for the envelope, but she was bouncing too much. “Damnit, slow-down you ignorant asshole!”

“Slow down, Arthur!” Mary-Beth put a bit of iron into her voice Esther didn’t think she had, and Arthur slowed a bit.

Esther pulled out the envelope. She counted. “Seventy-six and change, and got away free, I don’t think that’s anything to sneeze at!”

“We didn’t get away free, and I reckon my discounted rates with Seamus are about to disappear,” Arthur’s face was twisted and rueful.

“Wait, you know him?” Esther propped herself up on an arm.

“Yes, he’s the local fence,” Arthur shook his head, “Emerald Ranch, of all places to pull a con…”

Esther guffawed, “Really? _Really_? No one _asked_ you to come along!”

“Enough!” Mary-Beth shouted raising her hands, “Enough you-two! None of this solves anything!”

Esther was about to turn on Mary-Beth, but thought better of it. It was true. The shouting certainly wasn’t helping her wound.

“Jesus, I think I understand why you two weren’t talking…”

“I _tried_ to talk to him-!”

“How is it _my_ fault-!”

“Enough!” Mary-Beth nearly screamed it, and a flock of birds flew up out of the tree ahead of them. “Dutch will decide what happens with the money. Esther… You need to rest. You’ve had a long day. We both have.” And she turned around and crossed her arms.

An ugly feeling rolled around in Esther’s stomach. She’d pissed of Mary-Beth and she truly didn’t need any more enemies in the world at the moment. She lay back down, watching the trees go by, trying not to get motion-sick.

* * *

When they arrived at camp it was dark, and Dutch was waiting for them.

“Can anyone tell me how, exactly, a gunshot victim managed to get herself out of camp?”

“I didn’t know anything about this, Dutch,” Arthur made a cutting motion with his hand.

“Mary-Beth?” He looked to where she was helping Esther out of the wagon.

“It was a job, Dutch,” Mary-Beth said lamely, “And besides, it worked! Esther got paid.”

“How much?” Lenny had walked up as soon as the wagon rolled into camp.

“I explicitly told her to _lay low_ , and she somehow convinces you two to go behind my back?”

Mary-Beth gasped audibly, “Of course not, Dutch, we’d never-.”

“Told you we shoulda put a bullet in her and save us a whole lot of trouble, Dutch.” Esther recognized that voice. Micah drifted towards them, where all the shouting was happening, “But Arthur told us that she was nothing to worry about. You remember that?” He seemed awfully pleased at the discord happening right in front of him.

Esther couldn’t help but look at Arthur, who was looking at the ground. She turned to Dutch, “It was a small con. All my idea. I roped Mary-Beth and Lenny in. Here,” she took out the envelope, “Consider it an apology or whatever,” she tossed it to him and he caught it, “Though Lenny and Mary-Beth should still get their cut. They did their part.”

“That they did,” Dutch’s tone was less obliging, but he opened the envelope and quickly counted the bills there.

Hosea was there now, having watched the initial shouting from afar, “So? How much did they make?” he called over.

“Looks like, little more than seventy-five dollars.”

“And it was freely given,” Mary-Beth piped up, “It wasn’t stolen or nothing. It was genius. Esther pretended to be sick, and-.”

“That’s enough, Mary-Beth,” Dutch said, “I think I’ve quite got the picture.” Esther felt Mary-Beth deflate beside her.

“Pretty good haul, for a small con,” Hosea called back. Esther saw others in camp were now watching them, “Under any other circumstances it might be call for a small celebration.”

“Yeah,” Karen pipped up from a place over by the fire, pale skin like a beacon against the dark night, “C’mon, Dutch. Let the lady work if she wants to work. You’re always gettin’ at us for laying ‘round.” Esther could tell she was drunk even from this distance.

She saw Dutch look at Arthur, who had now raised his head, and then at Esther. She didn’t drop his eyes, though they were like stones, and difficult to look at. After what felt like an eternity, he boomed, “Well, then, don’t let me stand in the way of a good party,” then he stepped closer, and pointed the envelope at Esther’s nose, “Don’t let it happen again. Or no amount of luck will help you then.”

Esther nodded once, curt. She watched Dutch turn on his heel and saunter towards the house, Micah grinning at her then following. He reminded her of Guido, a yes-man who laughs at the bosses jokes while he plots his own ascent. Esther only had to learn her lessons once. She was going to watch him, even if no one else was.

As Dutch left, a little bit of warmth crept back into the air, and Esther found herself letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Abigail was suddenly by her side, “Oh Esther, are you okay? Let’s get you settled in…”

“No!” Mary-Beth breathed, hot and irritated at something Esther couldn’t quite understand. Was she mad at Esther still, or Dutch? “Let’s sit by the fire a bit, have some drinks. We deserve it.”

Abigail looked at Esther, who shrugged, “Might as well, I suppose.” It wouldn’t hurt to earn back a little rapport in camp, at least, and besides… A beer sounded wonderful.

“You too, Arthur, you’ve been driving all day, haven’t you?” Mary-Beth tossed carelessly over her shoulder. Esther resisted the urge to poke her in the side. What was she trying to pull, exactly?

She was settled against a stump to support her back, and given a beer by Uncle, who congratulated her on a first job well-done and offered to give her tips if she were interested. Esther told him some other time, and Mary-Beth settled in next to her, blocking Uncle from further bothering their guest.

Javier strummed a soft tune on his guitar, and Charles walked over to join them. Karen’s face was rosy in the firelight, jug of moonshine next to her. Lenny eagerly jumped over the fallen log that served as a bench and was joined by Hosea. Abigail sat with him, and last to join was Arthur. He still looked irritated, but perhaps that was a permeant look nowadays.

She remembered the way his face looked as he patched up her arm after walking to Wapiti, an adventure that seemed forever ago now. Sharing things seemed so much simpler then. She looked away and took a long pull. It didn’t hit the way she wanted to. She wanted something stronger. She snagged a finger through Karen’s moonshine, and lifted it to take a gulp.

“Usually that stuff’s reserved for when jobs go bad,” Hosea said with a little humor.

“You weren’t on the job,” Esther snorted.

“So how’d it go? Did they call for the doctor?” Lenny asked, eyes sparkly in the firelight.

“Perfect. Pitch-perfect, until Tacitus showed up. Miriam was a real doll, treated me like a princess while I was puking my guts out into a tin pail.”

Javier smirked, “Sounds like a trip.”

“It was, especially with this wound in my side,” Esther groaned, and took another swig. “But, I think we made out alright.”

“What was the con?” Hosea asked, “Asking as a professional, of course.”

Mary-Beth retold the rough outline Esther had sketched for them in planning, gesturing with her hands. Esther added a few details, including Seamus being called in a pinch, and Hosea shook his head, “Bad luck, that. Sounds like a decent trick.”

Arthur, predictably, said nothing. The conversation moved to her work for Bronte, and she explained how she handled everything from small-time money laundering to muscling out the small-timers that had ambitions on Bronte’s control over the city.

“And you lived in that big house? I bet you had your own room and your own bath,” Mary-Beth laid her head on Esther’s shoulder. She was surprised at the touch, and surprised she didn’t want to shrug it off. She must be more drunk than she thought.

“The baths were nice, I won’t lie,” Esther laughed, “What I wouldn’t give for my tub again…” Then blushed, “Not that your gang’s kindness is lost on me, Hosea. I would have died, if you all hadn’t decided to attack Bronte that night.”

“You nearly did, my dear,” Hosea toasted to her, “To Esther, a princess in exile, may we never make her our enemy.” Javier grinned and toasted, and Lenny gave a drunken, _to Esther._

Esther smiled and toasted to him in return. She thought about apologizing then and there, but she was drunk, and she had a rule about apologizing while drunk a long time ago.

“I bet you had all sorts of men going after you in the city, surprised none of them didn’t carry you off,” Mary-Beth prodded, and Esther flushed. Where was she going with this? With Arthur sitting right there?

_No,_ Esther thought, _fuck Arthur, remember? Arthur’s an asshole. Yelling at me… Blaming me for shit… The nerve._ “More or less,” she grinned at Mary-Beth, “Though I was always pretty clear I didn’t want company and they were always pretty clear they were after my money. I think they thought that courting me would get them in good with Bronte, though Bronte couldn’t give less of a fuck who I was seeing.”

Karen leaned forward, “Really? You could just have your run of the town?”

“Oh, sure. He would warn me off getting too serious. He didn’t want any son-in-laws he’d have to babysit,” Esther waved a hand dismissively, “Not that anyone really got that close. I was never serious with anyone, and no one was ever really serious with me; not _about_ me, at least, though there was a boy who liked the idea of building some… criminal empire with me, I think.”

“What?” Mary-Beth gasped, “Esther, have you never been _in love?_ ”

Esther shrugged, irritated at the question, “What’s that got to do with anything? And besides, men don’t fall in love with girls like me,” she pushed Mary-Beth off of her, and made to stand despite the pain.

“Oh, I fall in love all the time,” Mary-Beth smiled, half to herself, head bobbing without the support of Esther.

“And boys love you too,” Karen laughed, and edge to it that Esther couldn’t decipher.

Esther pointed at Hosea and Javier and Lenny, then cupped her hands together, as if asking for water, “Men like…” she hiccupped, “Men like girls who are little birds,” she cooed at her cupped hands and Karen cackled again, “Little, tiny, precious birds, they can protect and keep safe…” She made petting motions with one hand, and Abigail and Tilly started giggling too, “And I’m not a fucking bird!” Esther threw her hands up in the air, swaying, “And I’m not precious!”

“I think you’re precious,” Mary-Beth mewled.

“You think everyone’s precious, you’re like… you’re a whore for precious,” Esther started, then giggled at her joke.

“Esstherrrr…” Her friend’s face soured.

“I think you’ve had enough celebrating for one night,” she heard Hosea say kindly. Javier objected, clearly enjoying the show Esther was putting on. She fed off of his encouragement, and put her hands on her skirt and lifted them to show her calves.

“Me? I’m a whore for… for…”

“Freedom!” Karen shouted.

“Whore for freedom!” Esther shouted back.

“Whore for freedom!” Lenny bawled.

Hosea and Javier laughed at him, the fire warming up their faces. Their teasing was good-natured. Like a family. Esther had never really seen it up-close before.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Arthur’s tone was like water on their warm fire, “You makin’ a fool out of yourself, go ahead, but you can stop makin’ a fool out of the rest of us.” Esther turned to tell him off, but was surprised instead by being tossed over his shoulder by strong arms. His shoulder dug into her stomach, and her head spun. Her eyeballs seemed to keep spinning in her skull as he walked away from the fire.

“Arthur, now…” Hosea called after him.

“Mary-Beth!” Esther moaned, “Help!”

“Esther!” Mary-Beth made as if to get up, but Abigail placed a hand on her shoulder to settle her, and waved at Esther.

“No!” Esther burned at the betrayal. They would pay for that. They would all pay. _God_ she must be more drunk than she thought. She wacked on Arthur’s back with her fists, but it was like banging on a wood door, and her head was still spinning, “Set me down, asshole!”

“You an’ me need to have a talk,” Arthur growled once they were inside the house, “In private.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O no I wonder what’s going to happen you guys  
> #  
> Journeys in my browser history:  
> https://www.bestmedicaldegrees.com/10-dangerous-drugs-once-marketed-as-medicine/  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syrup_of_ipecac#:~:text=Syrup%20of%20ipecac%20(%2F%CB%88%C9%AA,which%20it%20derives%20its%20name.


	13. Women's Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an explicit chapter. If that’s not for you, once you the “###” skip until you see the “###” again.

Arthur carried her up the stairs on his shoulder, “Quit your caterwaulin’.”

“Fuck you,” Esther continued to beat on his back, though it didn’t seem to make a difference. It was like trying to beat back a barn door. “Where are you taking me? Your room? Well, Jesus, Arthur, you don’t talk to a girl for a week and then you-.” He dumped her unceremoniously on the floor. Her teeth clacked together painfully. The door was kicked shut. She’d never seen the inside of where he stormed off to every night. There was a candle on the table that gave it a warm glow, illuminating the decrepit walls, the broken and rotten furniture, covered in newer bits and pieces that must have been Arthur’s life.

“Listen… I said listen to me,” he had her by the front of her dress. Her hands went around his wrist instinctually, trying to hold herself upright. “I know you thought you was bein’ cute today, runnin’ around makin’ fools of folks, but you actin’ like you’re the only one here with brains. Dutch and Hosea, they’ve managed to get most of us this far without your help,” he let go of her dress and pushed her back, and pointed a finger in her face, “And you’re going to listen to ‘em next time they ask you not to do somethin’.”

Esther made a face, “ _Most_ of you?”

“We’ve lost folks. Comes with the life. Bronte never lose a few good men in his work?” The idea was laughable.

“Bronte never bothered to keep track,” Esther admitted, propping herself up with her hands, “What, you think I don’t respect Dutch and Hosea? Abigail’s told me you have had some hardships. But, Arthur,” Esther waved a hand in the air, “I can’t just sit-.”

He was already shaking his head, “You can and you _will_ -.”

“Can’t I explain myself-?”

“I ain’t interested,” and he made a cutting off motion with his hand. It infuriated her.

“I tried to tell you-!”

“This ain’t _my fault-.”_

“It is!” Esther screamed at him. He’d brought her up to his room to have a chat in private but the whole camp could hear them, probably. She didn’t care. She was drunk, enraged, and generally upset. Let them hear. What did she have to lose? “You weren’t speaking to me! Like a toddler! Fucking coward, too fucking chicken to talk to me about what you were thinking?” The room was swaying slightly as the blood rushed to her face. That moonshine was powerful stuff.

“What was’re to talk about?” He was nearly shouting himself, hands in fists down by his side, “You worked for Bronte, not just worked for ‘em, was a _daughter,_ and you lied to me, how the hell was I supposed to trust a single word that came out of your mouth?”

“I was doing my job, and what the hell were you doing, stealing my money like that-.”

“This conversation ain’t about that and you know it,” Arthur’s eyes sparked, “What the hell is me holding your money in the face of you lying like that?”

Esther was quiet, and pushed herself back so that she rested against the bedframe. To her horror, she felt a tear creep out of the corner of her eye and down her cheek, and she wiped it away hurriedly, but more were following, “Fine man you are, waiting ‘til I was drunk to explain it to me,” she sniffed lamely.

“Fuck you, Esther.” She flinched. She deserved that. They stayed quiet for a few minutes, though it felt like an hour, each rolling around their own thoughts and accusations. It must have been the alcohol, but suddenly she felt all shouted-out. Tiredness made her head heavy, and ugly feelings were making her chest hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Esther chewed up the words and spit them out, “I’ve been sorry for a long time. But you gotta know that none of us are innocent in this life we got stuck with.”

Now Arthur looked away, putting a hand down on the map on a table lit by a candle and spreading it out needlessly. It lit up the worry in his face.

“And you can’t just decide not to share important things with me, like telling me that Dutch didn’t know how close I was with Bronte. How was I to know, Arthur? I’ve been trying to protect you-.”

“Oh yeah? You, protect me?” Arthur chuckled humorlessly, eyes still on the map.

“I let you go at the docks,” Esther said hotly, “I didn’t tell Bronte I was talking to you. I could have lured you into a trap, but I didn’t! I could have left you to find a way out of Saint Denis by yourselves after the trolley station. I’ve stuck my neck out for you plenty, Arthur, and I know you’ve stuck your neck out for me.” He slid his eyes over to meet hers. They were still flinty, but they no longer seemed enraged, a hair’s breadth from violence.

“You’ve got some nerve,” was all he muttered after a few minutes.

“I know better than to ask you to forgive me,” Esther said carefully, “But… We’ve got to work together now, at least until I get out of your lives. Well, maybe we don’t even have to work together, but you can’t go on ignoring me.”

“You’re like Dutch,” Arthur shook his head, “Full of fine words, makin’ fools of us all.”

Now it was Esther’s turn to laugh humorlessly, “The only fool I see here is me. Why would I lie to you now, Arthur? To what aim? I’ve got no more safety in Saint Denis, I have to start over. I’ve lost everything,” and saying it, she knew it was true. “I’ve lost… Bronte, I’ve lost my house, I’ve lost my fucking… fancy baths… The only thing I have is a gang that don’t even want me, and…” her voice cracked and she couldn’t continue. She wasn’t going to sit here, crying over her own life on the floor of this room, sour that for the first time since she was a child she’d have to know hardship. She still had a little pride.

“And what?” Arthur asked, looking at her.

Her heart hurt. That hard, cold, coiled thing in her chest was now a brand, melting its way through her with the emotions that stunned her brain. “Well, a friend. Someone to count on.”

“Oh yeah?” Arthur grumbled, looking away, “Who’s that? I don’t know ‘em.”

Esther sniffed, staring at his hateful profile in the candlelight. He was going to make her crawl to him on hands and knees. Arthur wanted her to show she meant it. “Lenny,” she breathed, and Arthur turned his face away completely, “He’s just been awful nice to me since I got here and-.”

Arthur was beside her, silencing her voice with a kiss so heart-breakingly sweet Esther nearly started crying again. It was such a different kiss from the ones they shared in Valentine and on the rooftop in Saint Denis. This one seemed to have a kind of warmth that emanated from within, rather than spread from person to person. His tongue flicked at hers and she returned it, deepening the kiss. His nose felt good pressed up against hers, his breath tasting of beer and she was sure hers tasted of moonshine. Lust and _need_ pulled at her stomach.

###

They moved as one up to the bed, her hands moving to his chest and his moving to where her shirt was tucked into skirts. A thought fought through the fog induced by liquor and the pleasure of his face so close to hers. She broke the kiss with a gasp, “Dutch won’t like this.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “You can stop protectin’ me now, Esther.” He covered her mouth once more and she let him push her down onto the bed. She pulled up her skirts so she could cast a leg over his, despite the twinge in her back. She needed this more.

But a few minutes later, when he grabbed her there she pulled back with a gasp of pain. “Shit, Esther, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she returned, kissing the line of his jaw and down his warm throat, where whiskers needed shaving, “just be careful.”

He pushed her back, “Is it safe for us to be-.”

“Okay,” she put a hand on his chest, stopping him, “Let’s make a deal. No more protecting each other, alright? Let’s skip the nonsense.”

His brow furrowed, thinking a moment, then smoothed out. A cheeky grin grew slowly over his face, “And skip to what?”

She just smiled and began unbuttoning his shirt. Esther saw his Adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow, and the silence pressed in on them.

“Oh… were you plannin’ on getting undressed? I wasn’t plannin’ on you stayin’ that long.”

Esther pouted with her face against his neck, “I cried in front of you, poured my heart out, and that’s all I get?”

Arthur guffawed between them, “Think you deserve better? You still got a lot to make up for, woman,” He started hitching her skirts up, running his calloused hands up and down her thighs. “You hurt me somethin’ fierce.”

“Do you know the number of people who’ve seen me cry can fit in a rowboat, Arthur Morgan?” Her voice was soft and breathy. She wanted him so badly. She felt the ache in her core, desperate for whatever he wanted to give her. Her fingers stopped with his shirt and went to his belt, undoing it easily now that there wasn’t a gun belt to fight with as well.

“You know the number of people who’ve made a fool outta me like that can fit on… an even smaller boat?” his voice hitched as she pulled him, already stiff, from his union suit. “You ain’t getting’ off that easy.”

Esther licked her hand and started working the velvety skin over the head, and he sighed. “Like this?” she teased, tilting her face up to his. His eyes were closed, his lashes looking beatific, lips slightly parted as he relaxed into her hand. His own ran over the skin of her hips, and then one split off and caressed her front, between her breasts, and up to her neck, where his fingers curled and gently squeezed. It set something off in her that made her shudder from the base of her spine.

“It’s a start,” he groaned, and pulled her closer for a deep kiss. She drew a thumb over the tip, spreading the slick that had gathered there, making her hand easy to work with again. She reached farther down and gently wrung out a gasp from Arthur. Suddenly her free hand was pinned above her head, forcing her to roll onto her back. Again, something about the force and the look in his eyes made her ache in need. She stared at him, mentally begging for him to make his move.

Arthur dragged her skirts farther up with his other hand and climbed between her legs, eyes half-lidded and staring deeply into her own. “Ah, Christ, you’re so wet for me,” Arthur’s head bowed, resting on her chest as she felt the sweet, dull ache of him inching his way through her. Her hand came up to pull at his hair. Blood rushed to her feet, to her hands, to her cheeks. Fuck, she needed this. Her bandages needed changing and her wound was killing her but she needed him so badly.

His grip on her wrist above her head tightened as he began to thrust, shallowly at first but then more deeply. Esther moaned into his kiss. Her legs weaved between his, pulling at him, encouraging him deeper. He broke off, “Shit, you wanted this too, huh? Needed this? Fuck, you feel so good…” The thrusts became quicker, “Tell me you needed this too.” His hand slid up her wrist, into her palm, and their fingers laced and held. This felt close. They were wearing far more clothes than last time, but this somehow felt more raw, more intimate. What were they doing?

“Fuck, of course I needed this too,” Esther gasped, leaving _you idiot_ implied on the end, “I’d do anything for this, I need you so bad,” she rolled her head back as he hit a spot within her that made her brain cloud over in pleasure, “Please, Arthur, please…”

He suddenly gasped into her neck, his hips stuttering in their pumping. Esther felt his hot spend suddenly fill her, the sensation so intense that she sucked air through her teeth. Her name seemed to rock through him, pleasure evident in the tightness of his hand holding hers, the heat of his panting on her jaw. His hips rocked slower, easing himself down, until he rested on her chest to catch his breath. When he finally looked up at her, it was to kiss her gently along the jaw, then the corner of her mouth, while his hand disappeared under skirts. She felt him brush her core and clenched involuntarily.

“Think you deserve something?” Arthur whispered into her ear, moving to lay beside her, one hand lazily circling her core then dipping inside her, while the other snuck under her neck and around to slip down the front of her shirt.

“Don’t play with me like this, it’s not becoming,” Esther hissed back, embarrassed by how hard her nipples were when Arthur ran two fingers over them. He leaned forward, breath on her ear.

“Your cunt begs to differ,” and he swirled a finger in a way that made her back arch while his tongue gently licked the shell of her ear.

Esther jerked her hips against his hand, growing increasingly desperate. In response, he pulled his hand away. “Now, girl, you’re going to lie there and behave. Show me you can behave, that’s it, now ain’t that better? Tell me how much better that feels.”

Two fingers went inside her while his palm rubbed at her, spreading the slick of her and him around, and Esther groaned. She cracked open an eye that had been forced shut to see him watching her, pupils blown wide with arousal. But his hand between her legs was slow, achingly slow.

“Relax,” he told her, “You ain’t in charge here, so relax.”

Esther closed her eyes, and consciously made the effort to unwind that cold coil in her chest that demanded she be in control, that demanded she be invulnerable. She pictured her hands white-knuckled on the railing of a bridge. Arthur was there, breath on her ear, kissing wherever he could reach, a steady presence. Esther breathed. She could trust Arthur. The realization came not from the rational part of her brain but deep in her bones, like ancient knowledge. Below was a long fall down, but armed as she was with this knowledge she relaxed her grip, and when she fell back she didn’t plummet but float.

His hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her scream. It was a surprise. She had intended to be quiet, but it was squeezed out of her, pleasure running through her like live current. Muscles clenched, the poisons exercised, and she was utterly helpless in front of pleasure so keen she nearly blacked out. It knocked the breath from her lungs.

She trusted a man and it nearly killed her, or at least, that’s what it felt like.

She gradually dragged the breath back, her moans choked back and quieted, and she realized a moment later that Arthur had pulled his hand from between her legs and held her knee. The move was strangely intimate. She forced herself not to flinch away. He’d just coaxed out one of the most powerful orgasms she’d ever experienced from her. He could touch her knee.

“Fuck,” she croaked when he pulled his hand from her mouth, “You always fight with women like this?”

He smirked and lowered himself into the crook of her neck. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and lay a hand over his arm, the denim of his jeans rough against her bare leg. They lay there a moment, getting their breath back. Esther was suddenly aware of the cry of bugs and frogs outside, because there was no window to speak of. She could walk straight out onto the roof. It let in a cool breeze that made the candle flame flicker and writhe.

“Arthur?”

“Mm.”

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Hmm,” he curled around her, “Won’t be too comfy. Bed’s only made for one.”

She kept the disappointment off of her face. “It’s fine, I’ll sleep downstairs,” and she tried to rise, feeling foolish and wishing to hide her blush. Of course. They weren’t canoodling teenagers.

“Now, hold on there,” his arm wrapped around her middle and pulled her back down, “Didn’t say no.” Once she’d gotten more settled, he mumbled into her ear, “Don’t assume I’m just gunna say no.”

“You said no last time,” Esther pointed out, half-asleep by this point.

“Las’ time’s different,” Arthur said softly.

That was true. This was a new thing, between them. It wasn’t tryst-like, as Valentine was from start to finish. This thing felt heavier, but stronger somehow, too. Esther didn’t want to think on it too hard, lest she break it. When she fell asleep, her thoughts were of the loudness of the bugs, how dry her mouth felt, and how Arthur’s arm over her hip felt nicer than any kiss.

###

“What’s that song you’re singin’, Esther?”

The words died on her lips, and Esther blushed. She hadn’t even realized she’d been singing. The song had just come out of the rhythm of her sewing in the back of the wagon. Christ, she didn’t even know how she remembered it, “Nothing,” she said, trying to keep the tone light.

“It’s awful pretty. What’s it about?”

Esther shrugged, “Oh, just an old song about…” she didn’t want to say _weddings_ , “A man bringing his sweetheart gifts.”

“Shit, I like that song,” Karen grinned lazily, “Do shabila bla bla, do shabila hey hey…”

Esther chuckled. The women and herself had packed up the wagon and made a trip to the river to bathe and scrub clothes. The swamp water made everything smell of earth and must, it was true, and this was the reasoning they had given to Miss Grimshaw, but they also all itched to get out of camp.

“Do you wish Arthur would bring you gifts?” Mary-Beth rung out her hair, fresh out of the pond and her chemise clinging to her figure. She’d put it on before she’d dried.

Esther shrugged, “Who wouldn’t?”

“What would you like?” Tilly prodded, “As a gift?”

“A leather-bound journal,” sighed Mary-Beth, “So you could write and he could draw?”

Tilly threw back and laughed at her friend while Esther just smiled, “You’re far more romantic than me, MB.” But she gave it some thought, “I’d like him to bring me a big porcelain tub, filled with hot water, and spruce and lavender to scent it.”

Abigail made an appreciative noise.

“I think I’d lick just about anything if he did that.”

“Thanks, Esther,” Tilly growled, and Esther grinned up at her as they worked. Tilly was working on re-braiding her hair, her curls requiring careful architecture that Esther couldn’t fathom. She had fanned out her own dark curls over her back to expedite drying. If she were still in Bronte’s house, she’d have a bamboo brush to comb them out, then oil to scent and calm the frizz. Now she had neither, and the heat was doing it no favors.

Esther had pushed herself when she pulled the con, and she’d been laid up almost every day since. Slowly, she was gaining her strength back. She could probably ride now, but Arthur had insisted that she take it easy a few days more. She didn’t know if he was trying to buy her time to stay, or if he genuinely believed that. It didn’t matter. Dutch was itching for her to get gone, and she knew it.

“Esther!” Her head snapped up, “Didn’t you hear me?” Karen was sitting up from her washing.

“No, what?”

“I asked if you and Arthur could be considered… you know… an item, now.” Abigail, Tilly, and Mary-Beth all seemed to pause as Esther considered her answer.

“I suppose so.”

“Romeo and Juliette,” Mary-Beth teased in a sing-song voice.

“Not. Encouraging,” Esther rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, is sleeping together all it takes to be considered an ‘item’ in camp?” She hissed in frustration and tore out her last bit of stitching. She had accidentally sown the wrong bits together. Mary-Beth had tried to teach her quilting, but it seemed to be a lost cause.

“It is if you’re doing it every night. You’ve been carted up to his room every evening the last three nights, missy,” Karen bobbed her head, putting attitude behind the words. “To me that’s staking a claim.”

Esther didn’t know how she felt about someone having a _claim_ on her. Normally, it would probably make her spit. But that was different, with Arthur. “Or maybe I’m just shiny and new,” Esther said nonchalant, lying through her teeth.

Abigail snorted, “Quit playin’ coy. Arthur don’t go for shiny and new.”

Esther didn’t know why she was shying away from the obvious. She and Arthur obviously belonged to one another, and they didn’t make that a secret in camp. It wasn’t as if they kissed in front of others, or he held her hand while visiting with her on her cot during the day, but he was the one to bring her fresh water, to bring her food, to change her bandages. Seemingly overnight he had become in charge of her. It irked Esther, how he seemed to be _in charge_ of her. It frightened her how much she needed him to be close. Every day it was an internal struggle not to push the feelings away. She needed to find a balance between the two instincts or she would explode.

She caught the tail-end of something Karen said that made her look up.

“Hosea says that the plan is pretty close to air-tight,” Abigail shrugged at her washing, “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“We ain’t never gone for a city bank before, though,” Karen grumbled, more to herself, “I don’t like it.”

“Ain’t like we got a choice,” Abigail said.

“What city bank?” Esther frowned, “The bank of Saint Denis?” Abigail looked over at her, eyebrows knitted together, and glanced back at Karen, who shrugged.

“What’s the harm, Abigail? Who she gunna tell?”

“You’re serious?” Esther felt her voice pick up an octave, and laughed.

None of the girls looked thrilled at Esther’s incredulity.

“I’m sorry, whoever thought that was a good idea needs to have their head examined.”

“It’s Dutch’s plan. Hosea seems okay with it,” Abigail said defensively, leaning back to put her hands on her hips. Esther stared. Suddenly she was transported back to inside a smoking trolley, with Dutch clutching his head.

“Abigail, it’s madness. It’s too risky.”

“Excuse me, miss,” Tilly snorted, “You ain’t exactly in charge around here.” Her tone was friendly, but it conveyed an appropriate amount of irritation at what Esther knew was overstepping. They were being nice to her. They might even be friends. But she was still not _of the gang._

Tilly sounded like Arthur. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t the princess of Saint Denis anymore, and she kept forgetting that, “I’m just saying. I know that city better than any of you. That bank is too heavily guarded, too closely watched. Jesus, I didn’t know your gang was that desperate. There are ten different spots I could tell you to hit-.”

“Esther,” Tilly’s tone was flat, unamused. Esther shut up. “Dutch and Hosea have gotten us this far. We trust them to get us farther.” Karen flicked a glance towards Esther and said nothing.

…

As they returned to Shady Belle, Esther felt Mary-Beth shake her shoulder. “You liked it when your man brought you presents, didn’t you?”

With some effort, Esther sat up, rolling onto her knees and grabbing the edge of the wagon to stay balanced. She peered ahead, to where Arthur sat on top of his white pony, looking at them and grinning. Behind him, nibbling on the grass, was Cuez.

“ _Cuezaltzin!”_ Esther shouted, joy exploding from her chest. Cuez perked his ears at his name, but didn’t seem to know where it was coming from.

Arthur chuckled and dismounted, leading Cuez over to where the wagon rolled to a stop. The Turkoman’s nose flared and breathed Esther in, snuffling her face and hair with hot, strong breath. Esther scratched under his chin and where the halter always bothered him, grin plastered to her face, “I thought for-sure you sold him. Cuez, your mane! Someone brushed it out.”

“I kept ‘em stabled up north of here, a safe place. Finally found the time to go get him for ya, soon as you’re ready to ride.” Arthur kept flicking glances over her face, gauging her reaction.

Cuez seemed to finally recognize her and nickered playfully. Esther leaned her head against his and smiled at Arthur, “This your way of telling me to get gone?” She teased.

“ ‘Course not, just… Well, he’s your horse, and if you wanted to ride him, you ought to… You know, after Dutch lets you, I guess,” his smile was sheepish. She saw some complicated emotions roll through him. They needed to talk.

“Thank you.”

Karen and Tilly had already packed the washing up and carried it over to their tents to be folded. Mary-Beth was unhitching the horses, doing a poor job of hiding her interest in their exchange. Arthur seemed to notice.

“It was nothin’, really. Let’s get some dinner in you then I’ll change your bandages. You girls have a nice day out?”

Esther swatted his hand away when he went to scoop her up out of the back of the wagon, “I can walk, damn you.”

“Of course, princess,” His smarmy grin poked at her.

Esther rolled her eyes and straightened with her feet on the ground, stretching her back out. She could walk, true, but it was a slow walk, “Yes, we did. For the first time I’m not wearing my own dirt as rouge, and it’s a relief.”

“Well, we only want the finest for you, Esther.”

“Really? Only the finest? In that case,” Esther huffed and accepted Arthur’s hand as she sat slowly onto a log by the fire, “I wish to speak to management. The rooms are drafty and the bellboy is terribly flirtatious.”

“Oh really? Well, I must have a word with him.”

“Mmm. A very stern word.”

“Fucking gross, you two,” Javier groaned, sharpening his knives with a whetstone, “Jesus, it was like you two didn’t speak for a week and now you can’t keep it to yourselves.”

Arthur sent Esther a quick smirk and went to go see what atrocity of meat and broth Pearson was passing off for supper.

“What’d you expect? Arthur found the first woman who can’t run away from him,” Micah sat at the fire, grumbling. Ah, the Yes-Man. What poisons was he feeding Dutch about her and Arthur being an _item_ now? She didn’t like his watery eyes. If he had stepped into Bronte’s parlor office, Bronte probably would have had him skewered until he spilled the real reason for his visit. She could smell the ambition and the craftiness wafting off of him, and a manic energy she didn’t like one bit.

She gave him a half-smile at the joke, “How’d you get on at the bookie house? I never heard.”

“We got on,” Micah shrugged, the leather of his jacket creaking. Awful hot to be wearing a leather jacket, wasn’t it?

Javier huffed, “He tried to open up the back room’s safe with the dynamite, nearly brought the house down on top of us.” Seems he didn’t care for Micah either.

“Just wanted to see if we could get any actual money out of the job,” Micah held up his hands, “Three hundred dollars doesn’t break down to much.”

Esther cocked an eyebrow, “First I’m hearing of it. Didn’t realize you needed more just to make some noise. My apologies.”

She was rewarded with a curled lip, and at that moment Arthur returned to her and sat with her, handing her a tin bowl full of slop and digging into his own. Esther put a spoon to her mouth. It was terribly bland. But, she reminded herself, it was freely given, which was a sight better than she could expect anywhere else in the world. She tried not to let that bother her. This was nice. They were sitting around a fire, enjoying each other’s company. Couldn’t she give it a rest, just for now?

“Esther,” Karen said, sidling over and sitting down, “Why don’t you teach us that song you were singing earlier?”

“It’s in Polish,” Esther blinked, surprised. She didn’t expect Karen to be that interested.

“Polish? We got enough gibberish around here with Javier,” Micah groused, “Though I ain’t never turned down a pretty girl who could sing.”

“Oh hush, Micah,” Arthur didn’t look up from his soup, but his tone was that of an exasperated adult to a child.

“We can sing a bit of Javier’s songs,” Karen insisted, taking a seat.

Miss Grimshaw was passing by, “I didn’t know the girl could sing.”

“I can’t,” Esther assured her.

“She sings in Polish,” Karen explained.

“She curses in Polish too,” Javier chuckled to himself.

“Ain’t nothing wrong in a song,” Grimshaw shook her head at Esther’s reluctance.

“Geez, okay, fine. Let’s start with the basics,” Esther turned to Karen, aware of the eyes on her, “Mężczyźni.”

Karen’s face immediately screwed up in concentration, “That’s not a word. You’re just making fun of me.”

“I surely am not,” Esther grinned.

“How the hell do you make that noise? With the z and the j?”

Esther leaned forward and demonstrated, throwing her jaw forward in exaggeration, illustrating the sound between the zzz and the hard j.

“Fuck that. Never mind. You can sing it,” Karen sat back.

Javier saved her by pulling out his guitar, experimentally tuning it. The sound drew Hosea and Tilly over, and Arthur dragged Esther away after they finished eating and the others flowed closer to the fire. He let her walk into Shady Belle, then swept her up like a bride before she could climb the stairs.

“I could have managed this,” Esther gritted, a twinge in her side.

Arthur chuckled, “We couldn’t wait til midnight til you got up to bed.”

Esther shook her head and blew a stray hair out of her face, “Disrespectful. When can we go out riding with Cuez?”

“Just as soon as Dutch gives you the go-ahead, I ‘spose.” Again, that complicated look. It was a tightening of the jaw and a blank look in his eyes.

That reminded Esther of what the girls had said earlier in the day, about the bank robbery and Dutch’s hairbrained scheme. She looked at his face, as he nudged open the door to his room. It needed a shave. The unease in her stomach must have been written on her face, because he set her down on the bed and pinched her chin in between his thumb and finger, “Wassa’ matter, darlin’?”

“I…” Esther looked up at him, trying to find the words. She wanted to tell him it was a terrible idea – it WAS a terrible idea, but he’d be angry. _Coward_ , she cursed herself. Arthur and her weren’t casual, not like they were in Valentine. She had asked him to take her seriously, and he had been… Still. She worked her jaw back and forth, “I got… Something I want to ask you.”

“Oh? Must be pretty serious, with that look,” He knelt at her skirt, slowly moving his hands over her lap and towards her belt.

“Something like that. The girls were talking out at the river today, about a job coming up?”

His hands froze, and he sighed irritably, “This is ‘bout that bank job, ain’t it?” His mouth curled unpleasantly. He was irritated and perplexed, but not angry, not yet.

Her hands landed on his arms, softly shaking him, “It’s a bad idea, Arthur.”

“You ain’t in charge no more,” He huffed, looking her in the eye. The look he gave her was like oak. There was no give there. “You don’t get to decide what’s a good and bad idea. Damn it, Esther, we talked about this.”

Esther shook her head, more to herself, “I know, Arthur, but-.”

“No, no buts!”

“Arthur,” Esther pleaded, starting to get genuinely frustrated, “This isn’t like before. This isn’t me getting impatient and running off, or me making trouble with the girls, or some small thing. This is dangerous, _real_ danger, not the mitigating kind where there’s commensurate reward.”

Arthur listened, but didn’t seem impressed. Desperate, Esther held his face in her hands, “Who knows that city better than me, Arthur? Who knows its crime better than me? Maybe Bronte, but he’s dead. I’m telling you: No plan Dutch has cooked up is going to make this trip worth it.”

He pried her hands from him and it hurt Esther in an unexpected way. A cold feeling entered her gut.

“It ain’t about plans,” he wasn’t looking at her, “I owe Dutch a debt. I owe Hosea a debt. I don’t expect you to understand that,” and something about the way he said it hurt her again.

“When I found out Bronte was slaving I didn’t follow blindly,” Esther snapped, “I worked to figure something out. How come Dutch and Hosea expect the same?”

Arthur stood away from her, “Hosea don’t expect it.”

“Then tell him you won’t do the job. Simple as that. Tell him you’ll do another job, please, Arthur. You know I could point the gang towards real money that’s not so fucking dangerous-.”

“Is that what you want?” His eyes were flinty, on her. Esther frowned, not understanding. “Is that it, you’re just looking for a little more power, so you can be runnin’ things again?”

“What? No,” Esther reeled, “This isn’t my gang. I don’t want it. I just-.”

“Then why you always bossin’ people around, you’re always slippin’ in that you know secrets or some con or another that can help us. We ain’t asked you for help, Esther.”

 _But it seems you need it,_ Esther swallowed the words down and looked away, “Don’t do the bank job. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I never asked for your advice, neither.”

 _That_ stung. She remembered what it felt like to be on the rooftop across from the pier, how comfortable working with him felt. Now, she couldn’t even climb the stairs at her own pace, or get her own food, without him breathing down her neck. “Of course not,” she injected as much venom into her voice as she could, “That’d be the smart thing to do.” She got up from the bed, careful to keep her face neutral even as standing up made her back twinge again.

“Where you goin’?” His hands were fists down at his side.

“Downstairs, to my cot,” Esther spelled out for him. “I don’t much want to talk to you right now.”

“I’m not carrying you downstairs,” Arthur crossed his arms.

“I don’t _need_ you to,” Esther hissed, “I don’t need you to do half the things you insist on doing for me. I’m not some little doll for you to play with. I’m not some… little bird,” she said pointedly. “Get out of my way.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. You don’t get your way _once_ and you pout, you’re worse than Jack.”

Esther bit back the retort that bubbled up, “Move.”

Arthur stepped to the side, exaggeratedly sweeping his arm behind him. She stepped passed him and to the door, finding she lacked the strength to slam it behind her. No need. Arthur followed her out, watching her walk over to the top of the steps with an impassive look. She took it one step at a time, pointedly glancing up at him when she was halfway down. But when she looked, she saw he was no longer there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Mężczyźni” = Men  
> #  
> Lit arrangement of Do Ciebie Kasiunu - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hulzNW_2iwc  
> #  
> Y'all thought there wouldn't be angst in a chapter of so much smut? HA! you fools!


	14. Page of Gingerbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting today since I'll have no time tomorrow. Also taking a bit more time off. Things are bananas rn.

Esther woke cold and clammy in her cot. She hadn’t slept well. The noise of people moving and shuffling around the house had brought her back from where she’d managed to dose off sometime in the early hours of the morning. As she stood and stretched, getting her bearings, a dull heat broke out next to her stomach. She cursed softly, hand over her back, and wandered outside to see what the fuss was about.

Coffee was already on, though it seemed a bit early for everyone to be awake. Usually only the early risers were up and about at this point – Arthur, herself, Hosea, Strauss, maybe one of the girls. But Javier was cleaning his pistols, and Micah was growling at someone doing something too slow. Something was going on. She accepted a cup of coffee from Lenny, who gave her an apologetic smile. Esther’s eyes narrowed, hand on her hip, eyes scanning the camp, but didn’t say anything. Her eyes landed on Arthur, dressed nicely in a patterned vest and tailored jacket, hauling three repeaters over to the wagon. He caught her looking, and faltered, but only for a moment. Then he turned away, and continued packing. Of course. The bank job.

Esther kept calm. Her mind rifled over the past few days, running through events and picking up on what she’d missed. She’d been too busy with Arthur’s attentions to really notice things… In fact, Arthur generally hauled her upstairs before the party really started at the camp fire most nights, then after they’d peeled off of one another he’d whisper something about talking to Hosea, and creep out. But she’d always wake up with his arm slung around her side. The clothes she and the girls cleaned yesterday. She hadn’t been paying attention, but they were nicer than usual. And Esther hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t felt the excitement, the tension in the air, because she’d been too focused on Arthur. And now the day had come, and she was being left behind.

Esther took another sip of her coffee. It was watery but warm. She wondered whose idea it had been for Arthur to spirit her upstairs so that talk about the job around the campfire wouldn’t get back to her. Dutch? Maybe. Hosea? More likely. He was the more emotionally literate of the two men, Esther knew that much.

“You going today too, Lenny?” She asked, her eyes not leaving Arthur’s back as he packed the horses.

“Going where?” He turned with an innocent face that crumpled under her withering stare. “Yes, ma’am.”

Esther didn’t say anything, but took another sip of coffee.

“One more time, gentlemen,” Dutch’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Today’s the day!”

Tilly was suddenly by her side. She didn’t speak, but Esther slid a glance over to her. Tilly made herself her own cup of coffee, not acknowledging the look. Making sure Esther didn’t cause trouble, it seemed. She wondered who suggested that. Dutch would have just told her off himself. Arthur.

Esther bottled the rage the boiled up in her and stored it for safe-keeping, ready to be called up at a moment’s notice.

“You riding in the wagon, Bill?” Hosea called. Overnight an expensive-looking carriage had been moved to camp.

“Me and Javier are going in first,” Bill called back.

“Alright. Miss Abigail?”

Abigail flounced out from behind a wagon in a dress Esther hadn’t seen before, headed for the carriage. Tilly turned at Esther’s sharp intake of breath, “Ain’t nothin’ we ain’t handled before, Miss Dobranoc.”

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Esther replied cooly, pouring out the rest of her coffee. She knew John was riding. But Abigail as well? They couldn’t leave the boy _one_ parent? She threw her cup into the dirty dishes tub, gathered her skirts in one hand and turned away from the posse.

“Miss Dobranoc!” Tilly called after her, but didn’t pursue. She must have sensed Esther wasn’t going to make a fuss at the gang. Instead, Esther stormed around the side of the house, ignoring the throbbing in her side, muscling down the panic that threatened to rise through sheer will. Instead she focused on the anger. The low roil in her throat was nearly blinding, so that she didn’t even hear Uncle when he told her good morning. She stalked passed, not quite sure where she was going until she arrived at the pier. Once at its edge, the sounds of the swamp pressed in on her. The shriek of bugs and the purring of tree frogs, the low growl of bullfrogs, and the hiss of alligators. The sound of life leaned on her, and she concentrated on it fiercely, trying to give herself room from her own thoughts. Her heart felt heavy, and she felt stupid. She had cared so much so quickly, and now she was going to be punished for it. Esther didn’t believe in God, but she cursed him for allowing such foolishness to take place. Then she cursed herself for not at least staying to find out when they’d leave, because now she had to stand here, looking at the muted greens and browns of the swamp, until they’d left… Because returning would look like forgiveness. And Esther wasn’t the forgiving type.

The footsteps were muted by the muck and grass as they approached, so she didn’t hear Arthur until his boots knocked against the wood of the pier. “We’re headed out.”

Esther resisted the urge to snort. “Good luck,” she didn’t turn around.

“Come on now, princess. You knew what we was when you signed on.”

“No,” Esther leaned back slightly, taking in the sky, “Never figured you for stupid. That never factored into the calculations.”

“You must be awful bad at math then,” Arthur poked at her. It was an olive branch. _I’m just doing my job, just like you were._

Esther still didn’t turn, staring fixedly at where the mangrove roots disappeared into the swamp across from her. She was still afraid of what would happen when they arrived in Saint Denis. And she was still hurt Arthur had dismissed her out of hand. But that kind of articulation was a world away at the moment. A bird trilled in the distance.

“I’ll see you later, then,” She heard his boots take a step away.

“I won’t be here,” Esther deadpanned.

He sighed, exasperated, “Esther-!”

“I’m not going to _sit here_ , like some lovesick sweetheart, waiting for you to not come back,” She had not uncrossed her arms this entire time, and now she consciously unfolded them from her chest, “I won’t do it.” There was a beat of silence.

“Fine,” Arthur’s tone was impatient, dripping with spite, “Nothin’s keepin’ you here.”

Esther was glad she was facing away from Arthur, because she flinched, “Seems not.”

“Seems that way,” Arthur echoed, and she heard his hurried, furious footsteps stalk away.

Esther waited until she heard a cry go up, cheers as the gang rolled out, before she moved. She was stiff with emotion as she went back into the house, ignoring Mary-Beth who appeared at the back door. Her cot looked sad and dilapidated. It wasn’t as if she had much. The dress she was wearing was borrowed from one of the girls- it must have been Mary-Beth, because it was a bit too tall and too tight. She took up the sack that held all the things she’d collected in her stay – a ripped note from Jack, a kerchief from one of the girls, her money, her stockings that had survived her getting shot.

“What are you doing?” Mary-Beth was at her side, following her outside.

“Leaving,” Esther bit off.

“What, you can’t!” She nearly crashed into Esther as the woman swiveled on her heel.

“Can I not? And who’s going to stop me, _you?”_ Esther sneered. A flash of hurt crossed the younger woman’s face. Esther didn’t give it time to hit, and continued towards the horses. Miss Grimshaw was smoking by the fountain, saw Esther’s look, saw the sack in her hand, and didn’t say anything. Mary-Beth chased her out.

“Surely whatever fight Arthur and you had…! I’m sure you can work it out once they get back!”

Esther laughed, though there was no humor in it, “That’s the difference between you and me, MB. You’ll sit here and wait until the world ended for him to come back. Well, you’re welcome to him.” She heard Mary-Beth gasp and stop in her tracks, but didn’t turn to see what look she might have had on her face. Cuez turned from where he was hitched, ears perking at her voice. The sight of the horse calmed a bit of the storm in Esther’s chest.

“Jack!” Mary-Beth shouted. “Oh, Jack! Come here, sweetheart!” Esther turned, catching sight of Jack looking at Mary-Beth from where he was digging a hole by the gazebo. “Esther’s gunna take you fishing!”

“What are you doing!” Esther hissed.

“She’s gunna take you fishing by the river, just like Uncle Arthur!” Mary-Beth’s voice was taut with tension, but strong. She wasn’t going to be moved. Jack’s face split into a grin.

“Really?”

“Yes, she’s-.”

Esther stormed over to where Mary-Beth stood and took her arm roughly, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Mary-Beth only smiled a tense, manic smile, “You’re not going anywhere ‘til Arthur gets back. Now take the boy fishing. Unless you want to break his heart.” Esther blinked and stared at Mary-Beth, appraising her. She had misjudged the camp romantic. Somewhere, Esther had always put her down as the ditzy, man-crazy woman in the group, who had quick fingers and perhaps knew her way around the world… but the capriciousness caught her off-guard.

Jack was already walking over to them, “Will mama and pa be back when we get back?”

“Maybe, baby,” Mary-Beth crooned, “We’ll just have to wait and see.” She cast a meaningful glance over her shoulder to Esther, who didn’t return it.

“You’ll regret this,” she promised under her breath.

“Oh, let it go,” Mary-Beth whispered, “You can thank me later.”

Mary-Beth helped load Jack onto Cuez, and the two set off for the spot on the lake where the girls had bathed yesterday. The boy chattered like nothing was wrong, and didn’t seem to notice Esther’s reticence. She might just kill Mary-Beth. That girl had no right. She thought that whatever had snarled between Esther and Arthur could be fixed with a heart-to-heart. In that sense, she was still naïve.

After Jack had become sufficiently bored by the lack of bites – Esther couldn’t offer any pointers, having never fished a day in her life – they rode back. Esther saw with a twist of equal parts fear and satisfaction that the gang wasn’t back yet. She hadn’t wanted to confront Arthur twice, or allow it to seem like she stayed of her own free will. But she noticed a new horse in camp, one lathered in sweat, and as they rode up Sadie greeted them, “Thank Christ.”

“What’s going on?”

“Abigail just got back. The whole show’s gone to shit,” Sadie helped Jack down from Cuez. He immediately sprinted to where his mother was already waiting for him. Abigail’s face was twisted and upset.

“Abigail?” Esther dismounted with a grunt of pain, but adrenaline was starting to run through her. The image of Arthur, lifeless in a pool of blood, came to her unbidden, and she bit down on her cheek to stay focused.

“They got Hosea!” Abigail swept up her son, “Pinkertons were on us in seconds. I managed to get away, but…”

“We’re packin’ up,” Sadie turned to Esther.

“Where are we going?” Esther followed the two women back into camp, beneath the shade of the house.

Sadie shook her head, “Don’t rightly know yet.”

Esther’s eyes scanned the camp. Pearson was rolling up hides. Tilly was hauling dishes into the back of his wagon. Strauss was putting medicine bottles into crates hurriedly, so that they clacked together. Miss Grimshaw was shouting at Karen and Mary-Beth, who were taking down tents. When she turned and saw Esther standing there, she raised a skeptical eyebrow, then started for her and Sadie.

“What a goddamn mess,” she shook her head ruefully, arms swinging as she marched up to them.

Sadie was in a relaxed pose, but her face was tight, “What’s our next steps, Grimshaw?”

“We pack up,” the older woman blinked, trying to think. It occurred to Esther that she’d probably never had to decide all on her lonesome, “Then we wait.”

“For how long?” Sadie asked. It was a perfectly reasonable question, but it made Grimshaw visibly wilt.

“We should wait until nightfall,” Esther suggested, waving a placating hand at Grimshaw’s glance. “We shouldn’t be traveling in broad daylight. And the men might’ve returned by then.”

Sadie nodded slowly, and Grimshaw threw up her hands, “I’m too busy to care about the particulars. But we got plenty to do before then,” she gestured, “You think you’re healthy enough to help?”

Esther realized the question was directed at her, “I can’t lift anything, but I can pack and fold.”

“Then you help Karen with the linens. Sadie, would you keep watch? Make sure nobody shows up without our knowing.” The matron marched away.

Esther almost protested. It would be easier for her to keep watch rather than fold linens, and besides, shooting was something she was actually good at. But she bit her tongue. She wasn’t the princess of Saint Denis anymore. So she turned and walked off towards Karen, trying to keep the worry at bay.

Esther couldn’t remember a time when she was in this position. She was always the one out putting herself in danger; that was how she managed worry. She almost never worried about her own safety when out in the city, killing and thieving. Bronte certainly never worried about her, or never hinted at it. Now that she had something – someone, to worry for, it was excruciating.

Charles returned after dark. He came galloping back into camp, looking like he was fleeing death itself. It rattled Esther more than anything to see the unflappable man heaving for breath, his horse’s sweat so foamed up it dripped to the ground in clumps like soap suds. He immediately went to Grimshaw, and spoke with her quietly while Esther and the women watched from the front porch. Esther noticed Grimshaw’s shoulder’s stiffen. There seemed a moment when neither of them said anything, then the woman nodded. She turned and walked closer to the group, “The boy’s’ve gotten away on a ship.” Esther caught a halting pattern in her speech. _Most of the boys got away on a ship._ “But we need to think about where we land next.”

“I’ve been giving it some thought,” Strauss spoke up. His accent made the ‘v’s soft. _Ife been giffing it some thought._ “There is a village north of Saint Denis. Rough peoples live there.”

“Lakay?” Esther asked. Rough people was putting it lightly. They were downright monstrous. She noticed everyone was looking at her, “I know it. We… Bronte and I once thought we could run opium through there. But it wasn’t worth the trouble. The Night Folk don’t make very friendly neighbors.”

“Maybe they ought to make room?” Sadie prompted.

“It would discourage others from looking for us there,” Charles said quietly. “Is it far enough from Saint Denis we could lie low?”

“Sure,” Esther shrugged, “The nearest settlement is Lagras, and those folks mind their own.”

“It’s settled then,” Grimshaw said, picking up her skirts. “Sadie, Charles, you make room for us there. We’ll meet you on the north road out of Saint Denis-.”

“No,” Charles shook his head firmly, “The place is crawling with Pinkertons. I don’t think even getting that close to the city is safe.”

“Should we wait here then?” Abigail asked, a terrible note of hope in her voice.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea either,” Charles’ voice was gentle, “Meet us up by Mattock Pond.”

“That’s clear on the other side of Rhodes!” Karen exclaimed, more out of surprise than protest.

“It’s safer,” Charles said, and jerked his head at Sadie.

“Let me go,” Esther found herself stepping forward, eyes on her again. Charles threw a glance at her, skeptical.

“The two of you can’t take on all of the nightfolk by yourselves.”

Charles threw a glance at Grimshaw, who raised her hands. His eyes met Esther’s, and he nodded. Esther was relieved. Finally, she’d be able to kill something. She took with her a volcanic pistol that Arthur had left behind, and a Lancaster repeater that Karen loaned her. Cuez seemed giddy at the thought of riding around again, and didn’t throw his head once as Sadie, Charles and herself sped off into the night looking to make shelter.

…

_Be brave, sweetness._ Her father’s hands gripped her desperate, clinging arms. He gently pried them away. _You’ll see us again soon, I promise._ The smell of tobacco and shoe shiner. Estera sniffed, tears running down her face, choking on _Baba, baba,_ over and over again. But her father’s eyes remained smiling. _We are going to talk to your aunts and uncles in Blackwater, but we cannot bring you with us. It isn’t safe, my darling._

Her mother was kneeling beside her, looking up at her father with apprehension. Then Lilit looked at Estera, now called _Esther,_ and tucked a curl back under her scarf. Estera could sense that her mother didn’t know what to make of this plan. She was afraid. It was plain as day, even to a child, etched into the deep lines of her pretty face. Estera did not like what America did to her mother’s face. It was never a bright or carefree face, but now it was also stoic. It was like the new world was a stone that sought to grind her mother into crumbs. It asked too much. The constant bargaining was too expensive. To make a home for themselves, father Dobranoc needed to go to Blackwater with his wife, to see her family, to make a deal. But they did not want to bring Estera with them. They had to leave her behind.

A woman Estera didn’t recognize suddenly had a vice-like grip on her hand. Estera looked up, at the young woman in the uniform, with the pitying look on her face. “No!” Estera screamed, and realized she did not have any air in her lungs. No sound came out. She turned to look back at her parents. “Mama!” She screamed, but it was just dry whispers coming from her throat. Her mother couldn’t hear her. “Baba! Baba!” Estera heaved at the young woman’s hand, clawed at it in desperation, like an animal, like an insect mindless of the futility. She couldn’t breathe. Her parents were walking away from her, becoming shadows in the fog. “No!” but the shadows had already faded, and broke apart into dark wisps.

…

Esther woke with a start, the sensation of coming up for air after a long time under water chasing her up. She gasped, aware of how loud her pulse was in her ears, how fast her heart was pounding. However, the fear, the thing she had been afraid of, it was already fading. It was just a dream.

She looked around at the other sleeping forms of the women surrounding her. No one stirred. The gang – or what was left of it – had hardly managed to unpack before crumpling into bedrolls. Everyone was exhausted from worry. Moving camp did not help. They slept like the dead, which made it easy for Esther to sneak out, careful to find her sack of worldly belongings again and throw it over her shoulder. She still had Arthur’s volcanic pistol. She didn’t think he’d mind her stealing it. Might even respect her more for that fact. Her heart experienced something like a cramp. Arthur. She would be able to sense if he was dead, right? Esther didn’t believe in the afterlife – at least, not like the Christians and Catholics did, so she wasn’t quite sure if she believed in ghosts.

Miss Grimshaw had told them that Hosea was dead. The others were inconsolable at the news. Esther had not spoken to the man much. That did not mean she couldn’t sense the depths of their grief. It highlighted how much she did not belong.

She stepped out of the shack where she, Tilly, Karen, and Mary-Beth had been sleeping, and into the night. She hadn’t cried for Hosea. Her absence of emotion cemented a very important thing in her mind: This wasn’t her space. It wasn’t her place.

Cuez nickered softly as she approached, and she whispered soft things into his ear while holding her hand out for him to smell. He recognized her and nudged her shoulder with his soft nose, large eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He was tired from moving everyone, but he would not deny her this. She was still in a borrowed skirt, but she still threw her leg over his back. There was no decency to be had in this.

Esther turned his head from the other horses, and walked him out of Lakay. No one stirred. It was too deep in the night, after too hard a day, for anyone to notice her leaving.

“Come on, boy.” She spurred him into a trot once the lamps had disappeared behind her, and once they were out on the main road, under the huge pine trees, she kicked him into a gallop.

She didn’t have much by way of a plan. The moonshiners in Rhodes might still take her in. She had money enough she could lay-up somewhere until she figured something out. Esther would land on her feet. She always did.

But when the soft glow of Saint Denis became visible across the marsh, she slowed Cuez into a walk. This city had been her home for so long it was hard to distance her own identity from it. The Van der Linde gang had never known a place like that. They had been roaming for too long.

Esther halted Cuez.

She stared at the beautiful, terrible city in the moonlight. The bugs and the creatures of the swamp sang their loud trills, shrieks, and chirps at her. She could feel the stiff breeze off the river to her left, and the smell of river clay made the whole bit of country stink. This was the kind of place the Van der Linde gang called home. What Hosea had called home. And now he wouldn’t call anyone anything, not anymore, and the more temperate and emotionally intelligent of their leaders was dead too, and their men were missing.

“God damn it.”

She could feel Bronte in her ear, from beyond the grave, whispering about the mathematics of her decision. She didn’t owe these people anything. She didn’t owe Arthur anything. He’s the reason she’s in trouble in the first place, why would she owe him anything?

But she also couldn’t move forward.

Bronte had raised her to be logical, and ruthless, always looking to the future. Their survival had depended on it. But Bronte was dead. His empire was in shambles, and the city’s worst were probably busy picking apart its carcass, scavenging what bits they could claim for themselves. It was the perfect moment for her to make a re-appearance. This was the kind of atmosphere where leadership was forged and raised up – she could do it. That’s what Bronte would have done.

Bronte was dead, and she was still following through with his designs as if he weren’t. Esther breathed the night air slowly, realization dawning on her. The man who had raised her was dead. She could be whatever she wanted to be now, no questions asked.

What did she want to be?

She was _good_ at the kind of logistics Bronte’s legacy demanded. She was the perfect successor.

But what did she _want?_

Cuez tossed his head, unnerved by just sitting in the middle of the road. She had told Mary-Beth that she wouldn’t just sit by and wait for Arthur to return, and she had meant it. There was no universe in which that would make Esther happy. That was not how she was. She could always leave and find out later if the men made it back, couldn’t she?

Esther realized this wasn’t just about Arthur. This was about a band of people who’d lost all their leaders, was tumbling in its own chaos, barely having found a place to land. The Van der Linde gang needed her in a way that Saint Denis did not.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” she grumbled aloud, and turned Cuez back around.

Charles was surprised to see her riding up to camp. He stood from the crate he was using to keep watch, and nodded, “Good morning.”

“I got breakfast,” Esther said lightly, gesturing to the turkey she’d mangled with the pistol tied to Cuez’s saddle.

Charles glanced at it, then at her, “Surprised you came back.”

Of course. Nothing got past Charles. “Me too.”

“Pearson’s setting up right now, I think. I’m sure Grimshaw will appreciate the fowl.”

“ ‘Course,” Esther nudged Cuez to the hitching posts. It was a new day.


	15. The Endurer of All Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one, folks.

#

_Dear Fred,_

_You’re probably surprised to hear from me. Much to the dismay of many, I’m sure, I’m alive and safe, staying with friends in the country. I haven’t been back to Saint Denis since the king’s deposition, so I don’t know what the news is, and that’s why I’m writing. It seems I’m in real need a friend right now. You know how I hate to beg, but I’m afraid circumstances are such that I don’t have much of a choice._

_I’m only asking for information, but it’s information that needs to be gathered discretely. I need to find the Van der Linde gang. Last I heard, they had escaped using a boat to get out of the city. Truly, Fred, any information you can find will help. Be careful. Powerful men are also looking for them._

_And if you choose to ignore this letter, I understand. I know I was never as good to you as I could have been. I know that apology sounds particularly empty, given everything that’s happened._

_Your friend,_

_E_

#

Esther kept her hat tipped over her face, though the likelihood of someone recognizing her in this shithole town was slim. Esther paid the postman with a smile and a nod, and turned back the way she came to the Van Horn fence. Abigail and Mary-Beth were buying supplies with the money that Esther had managed to smuggle from the destruction of Bronte’s estate. Leaving Lakay was risky, but they didn’t have much of a choice. They couldn’t survive off of squirrels and turkey forever.

Esther stepped inside the dim shop, where netting and other fishing equipment hung from the ceiling. She heard Abigail’s voice, though it wasn’t quite Abigail’s voice. There was a note in it that was like steel. She was haggling.

“Well, I don’t know,” Abigail said, fussing over the food, ammo, and blankets that were on the table in front of her, “It ain’t like you come by it honest either.”

The man behind the counter had a beard like a honey badger’s tail and a countenance that matched the animal’s temperament. “Come on, Abby, we could get better prices in Annesberg,” Mary-Beth tugged on Abigail’s sleeve. “It’s too much.”

“That feller up in Annesberg will take advantage of you ladies in more ways than one,” the fence groused, waving a hand over the goods, “This is the best price. I won’t go any lower.”

“But I don’t want to ride all the way back up to Annesberg,” Abigail griped.

“I don’t mind going,” Esther offered, joining them. “I can ride there and back within the day.”

The man scowled, “I’ll do $16.40, since it’s in my heart not to subject a woman to that whoreson up north. Pardon my language.”

“Fine,” Abigail smirked, “You’re a gentleman. I surely appreciate you sparing me the ride.”

“Really, it’s no trouble,” Esther had a problem keeping the smile off of her face.

“No, no,” The fence was already packing up the goods, “Like I said, couldn’t live with myself if one of you ladies got hurt.” His tone of voice didn’t quite sell it.

“Sure,” Esther couldn’t help but chuckle. She took a crate and Mary-Beth took the other, while Abigail paid and opened the door for them.

Esther shook her head, “That sure was something.” A dog barked off in the distance, and the stink of river water was on the whole town. She wondered if that fence was used to getting fleeced, with this caliber of customer. Not likely.

“Wasn’t nothing,” Abigail shrugged, leading them off towards where they had parked the wagon. Cuez was hauling them around today. While the Turkoman didn’t have too much of a problem with just them, losing the draft horses was an issue. But it wasn’t as if they could go out horse-rustling for more at the moment.

The women loaded up the wagon and started the long haul back to the swamps.

“Do you think your friend will be able to find out what happened to the men?” Abigail kept worrying at her hands. Esther knew she was sick about John. For as much as they argued, she seemed really attached to him. She knew that look. It wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened a thousand times over. Sometimes women seemed to hold a torch for their menfolk, even as their men seemed bound and determined on dousing it.

“If there’s something to be known, he’ll find out,” Esther said confidently. Then she felt bad. She kept assuming that Fred would follow through for her. Wouldn’t _she_ look like an asshole if he finally decided to come to his senses and cut her loose…

But no. She trusted Fred, despite the risks. Of course, what if he found out that John had been gunned down by Pinkertons? That Arthur was being held somewhere by the agents? Esther shuddered. Charles, Sadie and herself had a hell of a time finding and burying Hosea. They had no money for bribes, so it had been up to Esther to distract the morticians enough for someone to get Hosea out of the city morgue before being thrown in a pauper’s grave. Esther was no stranger to death. She was of a mind that they were all at various points of being Worm Food. But to see their friend in such a state… It made her soul recoil.

The women returned to the swamps without incident. The day rolled on, as it had for most of the week. Esther spent the rest of it helping Charles repair one of the shacks and going hunting with Sadie. Pearson was uncharacteristically grateful for the new supplies. Esther only hoped that it improved the gruel they’d been getting so far.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” Sadie asked, shotgun slung into the crook of her arm. She and Esther walked slowly side-by side, kicking up the underbrush, eyes scanning for the flash of feathers.

“Sure,” Esther said, her own held under her arm. Bird-hunting seemed most efficient at the moment, though Esther had seen signs of boars in the area and thought to ask Charles to bring one down later.

Sadie seemed to still be rolling the question around in her head, “Why’d you stay? Is it because of Arthur?”

Esther laughed mirthlessly, “Yeah. I want to see his stupid face and gloat. I told those boys the bank job was a horrible idea.”

The sun was orange and its light was stark through the emerald green of the trees. This place had a terrible kind of beauty to it, choked with life as it was. It wasn’t like Saint Denis, where the only living things are the people and the lice and the farm animals. Here, the air was thick with bugs and the ground with rodents and snakes and the trees with more snakes and panthers. It was a wild part of the world still.

“I’m serious,” Sadie said, eyes on the trees, “There’s nothin’ holdin’ you here. So why stick around? Molly sure didn’t. I don’t know _where_ Reverend goes most days.”

Esther bit the inside of her cheek, thinking a moment, “I don’t really have anyplace else to go. And, no disrespect, but you folks need me right now.”

Sadie smiled, “That’s true. I ain’t about to run you off. You been a big help around camp, especially with Jack,” she sighed, “Abigail… Well, she ain’t really fit to have sole responsibility right now, frankly. Not that I’m blaming her. When Jake died… Well, I s’pose I lost it too.”

“Jake?” Esther asked. Sadie raised her eyebrows, then nodded.

“Yeah, sorry. Forgot you ain’t been around too long. I joined up with Dutch after the O’Driscolls killed my husband… I wasn’t all there, for a while. Still not all there, some days,” Sadie shook her head, “Hell of a gang of outlaws, ain’t we? Half of us moping around and the other half of us crazy.”

“You all are alright,” Esther shrugged, “Better than Bronte’s cronies, that’s for damn sure.” Esther had said it to be nice, but she found it was true. These people felt more… real than the ones in Saint Denis. But something Sadie had said bothered her. It was true, Esther _had_ been taking care of Jack a lot. It was strange, but she felt like his nanny again. She helped him dress, made sure his face was clean, made sure he was practicing his reading on the now only two books they had. One of them had been lost in the move. She made sure he’d been fed that day, that he wasn’t too sad.

She’d tried talking to Abigail once. It hadn’t gone well, though Esther didn’t blame her friend for that. Esther was far better at intimidation than expressing sympathy or empathy.

“Mind your business,” Abigail had snapped sharply when Esther tried to talk. “You have no idea what’s in my head. You think what you and Arthur had for a week is the same? Ha! Give me a break.”

Esther backed off. It occurred to her that this was the first time someone in camp had acknowledged that Esther might miss the man who’d been hauling her upstairs in Shady Belle. It wasn’t as if anyone made a secret about wishing the boys home. Everyone had been watching Abigail as if she were a bomb, ready to off at any time with her grief. No one besides Esther and Tilly had tried to approach her about it. It occurred to Esther that the camp might be looking at her the same way.

In the present, a bird rushed up in a storm of feathers, brought down by Sadie’s quick aim. Esther couldn’t even bring up her shotgun in time.

“Daydreamin’?”

“Something like that,” Esther admitted, “Sorry. Great shot.”

“Thank you,” Sadie strung the quail, bleeding and limp, on her belt.

“You’d asked me if I stayed because of Arthur,” Esther said slowly, wanting to acknowledge it, “And I’m not. I just want to be clear. Though I do… care something for him. Sorry, that probably doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not really,” Sadie admitted. They continued walking.

“I think… I feel like… I’m supposed to wait on him to get back, if he gets back. I feel like I’m supposed to be broken in half with grief or something. Even though we’ve only known each other a month. And it’s not about time, if that makes sense. I care about him as if I’ve known him for years.”

Sadie nodded, not saying anything, perhaps sensing that Esther needed to process this bit out loud. Esther was grateful, because she was surprised by what was coming out of her, almost unbidden.

“It’s that… Well, I don’t think our relationship is the waiting type, you know? We’re not ships passing in the night, but we’re not pining lovers waiting to get married either. We started working together, and I think that changed something that’s normally between a man and a woman. I see him as a partner, like, as a friend, just as much as someone to pine over. Does that make sense?”

Sadie’s eyes had gone distant, “That makes sense to me.”

“I don’t even think he’d expect me to wait. Not really. Now, this is just me speculating, maybe he thinks different, but it’s like we got a tie that binds. And time won’t work on it the same way it does others. So I don’t need to worry. It’s like faith.”

“Like Dutch’s faith?” Sadie snorted.

Esther grinned, “Something like it, maybe. Except this is actually there, and it doesn’t ask for the other to risk something, over, and over, and over again.”

“And over again,” the other woman echoed, craning her neck up to look at the trees. “Sounds like love.”

Esther huffed a breath, “I’ve never been in love. So it might be.”

“Sounds like you still have some stuff to figure out.”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks for listening.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Us womenfolk got to lean on each other in these things. Who else are we gunna talk to?”

“Dunno, you don’t think Pearson would have good advice?”

Sadie cracked a smile, “Or Reverend?”

They chuckled a bit at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life continues to be crazy, so I think I'm going to adjust to every-other-week for the foreseeable future. I got so much story left in me tho! I can't wait for y'all to read it.


	16. Picking up the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit chapter (because of course). If that's not your thing, skip after you see the "#."

_Dearest E,_

_Where the hell have you been?! I was worried sick! When I’d heard what had happened, I assumed the worst. Apparently, all my worry was for naught, because you’ve just been taking in the country air. You couldn’t have possibly written sooner? Not even a note?_

_Bronte’s operations are like an elephant carcass, and the whole jungle wants a piece. The Irish want a bit of a leg, and the mayor wants a bit of tusk, and new players out of Rhodes want the stomach, while those left are trying to find a place to roost. The city is chaos. No one is paying the police their extra bit, and it seems they will sit on their hands until someone tells them what to do. I fear that someone amongst their ranks will decide to take matters into their own hands, and try to carve off a piece of flank. I fear more that our friends of the state will try to establish their own king. You are urgently needed here. Even your very presence would assuage fears. The king has been slain and there is no heir, so the castle has fallen into disarray. It breaks this poor courtier’s heart._

_In order to please you, and urge you to return, I have done as you asked and found out about your men. One of them were slain in a bank robbery, not long after Bronte was deposed. Hosea Matthews. Another member, John Marston, was taken into custody by federal agents. My source at their headquarters has hold me he was moved to the federal prison on the river, Sisika. The others were more difficult to track down. My best intelligence is that they escaped on a boat from the harbor, as you said, which later sank on its way to Cuba._

_I don’t know who these men were to you, but it seems this gang is no more. You had told me that other powerful men were looking for this information, and now I fully believe you, for when I sniffed around their case my source at the federal agency told me to back off. It seems our carpetbagging friends in vests are very keen to be rid of them, at the behest of Leviticus Cornwall. I had no idea, when I saw those cowboys at the mayor’s party all those weeks ago, that they could cause such trouble._

_I have done as you asked. Now please, do as I ask and return. I have a plan to return you to your rightful place at the top of Saint Denis. All the pieces are on the board, but it misses its queen._

_Your loyal courtier,_

_Fred_

#

Esther slowly sank down on a bench outside of the post office. She’d torn open the letter as soon as she could, hardly even bothering to leave the postman’s desk before scanning the spidery handwriting. Only fragments of sentences had floated up into her mind, and so she’d had to go back and read it again more carefully. _It breaks this poor courtier’s heart_ indeed, Esther thought. He needed her back because without her loyalty, he would remain the Most Ambitious Clerk at Saint Denis’ police department for another ten years. She was his express ticket up. It would be good to keep that in mind.

But Fred could wait. She had to get back to the others with the news. God, what would Abigail say? What would the rest of the gang say? Were the men dead? Were they really… gone? Cuez nickered softly at her as she strode up.

“Let’s get back boy.” She couldn’t get his hooves moving fast enough under her. She had to get out of this damn fish town.

_…Which later sank on its way to Cuba…_ Esther felt the gasp bubble up in her, rising through her throat like vomit, and a choked sob came out. The ball of dread that had been at the bottom of her stomach burst. They can’t be gone. They can’t be. She slowed Cuezaltzin to a halt, teeth gritted against the shudders. First Hosea. Now this. Christ. It was too much. Suddenly Esther felt the rush of the past week press in on her, the pressure that she hadn’t realized was there suddenly on her chest and cracking her open. She sobbed again.

“Fuck!” Esther howled, frightening birds off a tree. Cuez flicked his ears, uneasy. The image of Arthur unmoving in a pool of blood left her mind and was replaced by his panicked gasps, pressed against the roof of the cabin he’d been sleeping in, trying escape the water rushing up, the darkness pressing in as the lamps began to wick-out… Esther realized she was crying on the main road, that she looked like an insane woman, but she was bone-tired and couldn’t muster the energy to care.

She turned Cuez off the road and to the Lannahechee River’s edge, where she nearly fell out of the saddle and onto the bank. The weight of the exhaustion pushed her down. Chased out of Bronte’s mansion and into Shady Belle, then driven to Lakay… Esther wasn’t used to being hunted like this, and now, with Arthur missing… She sat in the mud, not caring if it sank through her pants. Esther read the letter again. Its words had not changed, though she wanted them to so keenly perhaps it could manifest. They can’t be dead. They can’t be dead. She needed to tell Abigail. She needed to tell Grimshaw and Sadie. Christ what a mess. The ball of grief and dread rolled around her stomach, paralyzing her. Her skin flashed hot and cold, hot and cold, fear wrecking havoc on her heart.

Esther’s fists pressed against her head. Slow down. Think. The men were not coming back. The gang needed a new plan. Esther needed to focus. She needed to pull herself together, then focus. The cold, coiled thing in her chest was an anchor she could hold onto. It never stopped moving, no matter what happened. That was her blessing and her curse. Whatever made Esther strong, whatever made Esther herself, it pushed people away, but it also propelled her forward. That’s what made Esther… Esther. Not Bronte’s teaching.

She listened to the cry of seagulls, and the slap of the water against the bank. Her breathing slowed. The gang needed a new plan. They couldn’t hide at Lakay forever, this was no way to live. Would they split up? Esther didn’t know the gang dynamics well enough to hazard a guess. Maybe.

“God damnit, Arthur, why didn’t you just _listen_?”

After several minutes of watching the foam from the river lap lazily against the banks, she stood. It was time to head back.

“So what do we do?”

Esther looked at the shacks around them under the brim of her hat, beyond Sadie, Grimshaw and Charles. No one was paying them attention yet, but they would be. “I’ve been thinking about that. I think we should go west. Out past Blackwater.”

“Blackwater?” Grimshaw asked, incredulous. “We just lost our boys and you want to move?”

“Is there a problem with that idea?” Esther was curious. She didn’t know much about the gang’s past beyond what happened in Rhodes.

“We ain’t welcome in Blackwater,” Grimshaw shook her head.

Charles shrugged, “The men wanted for that job aren’t with us anymore. Nobody knows about the girls, or me, or Esther. It’s not a bad plan.”

Grimshaw’s face was sour, “I still don’t like the idea of just up and leavin’. What if they survived?”

“As much as we want that to be true, we got to be realistic,” Sadie said softly, repeater slung over her shoulder, “Esther’s right. We can’t stay here. I left a note for anybody who goes back to Shady Belle, I can leave a note here.” Charles’ jaw worked, like he was chewing on something.

“I still don’t like it,” Grimshaw folded her arms. There was an uncomfortable, tense silence between them.

Charles ignored her, eyes falling to where Jack played with Mary-Beth, “Have you told Abigail?”

“Not yet,” Esther sighed, “She’s definitely not going to want to leave John in Sisika.”

“Blackwater’s on the other side of the Montana,” Grimshaw said unhelpfully. It was true, though. Esther wanted to move them farther away from Abigail’s man.

“It’s not like we can do anything about that right now,” Sadie grumbled, “He’s probably safer in Sisika than we are right now, in the middle of this goddamn swamp. For now, at least.”

“For now?” Esther asked.

“Bounty that high, there’ll be hanging talk,” Charles grumbled. He shifted uncomfortably. Esther’s heart felt like something had struck it, like a gong.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” his voice was soft, “She’ll want to bust him out.” There was another loaded silence.

“That’s a big ask,” Esther said aloud. “I’ll think of something.”

Grimshaw snapped her eyes to Esther’s face, “You’ll think of something?” incredulous. She understood. In what universe did a plan exist that she could break John out of Sisika? But Abigail was her friend, and deserved better than this.

Esther matched her stare, “I don’t see anybody else volunteering bright ideas. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go tell my friend some shitty news.”

Esther had tough conversations all the time, but usually they were with Bronte, or some city official, a known factor. This was so wildly different. But no one else seemed eager to approach her. She had no one else.

“Abigail,” Esther said, and the other woman looked up. There must have been something in her face, because she rose to her feet immediately, dropping the potato she was peeling to the dirt.

“What’s happened?”

“It’s John,” Esther said quickly, “We just got news. Pinkertons got him. Oh Abigail, I’m so sorry,” but the woman was already walking away, hands clasped over her mouth. Esther didn’t follow, but couldn’t help but think, _Why couldn’t the Pinkertons have captured Arthur?_ She mentally kicked herself. It was an unkind thought. It also didn’t make much sense. There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to any of this. Why bother daydreaming about what could have been? But then, again, that niggling thought, _He would still be alive then._

Esther let out a shuddering breath and looked back to where Grimshaw and Sadie still stood, eyes on her. She nodded, a strand of lank hair drooping over her face. Sadie nodded back. Grimshaw turned and marched away, yelling at Pearson, “Round up everybody. We got news.”

Christ. What were they going to do now? Tilly and Mary-Beth had been too far away to hear what was said to Abigail, working on washing, but they saw the way their friend had marched away. They put down their washboards and stood slowly, coming over to where Esther stood.

“Is it bad news?” Tilly asked, and her voice didn’t tremble.

“Yeah,” Esther didn’t look at her, “Where’s Karen? I don’t want to have to explain this again.”

“I’ll find her,” Mary-Beth said quietly, already on the verge of tears. Esther could hear the strain. Her eyes closed, peering inward, willing that hard, coiled thing at her center to give her the strength to do this without breaking down.

Tilly remained standing behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder, “Don’t know if anyone’s said this, but thank you, Esther.” Then moved her hand to her side again. Why the gratitude? Esther wanted to ask, but didn’t. She figured she knew. Somebody was going to have to shovel this shit up, it might as well have been her.

It didn’t take long for everyone but Abigail to be clustered in the middle of Lakay. There weren’t very many of them. They all looked tired and filthy. Karen was drunk. Pearson looked pale.

“I sent a letter to a friend in Saint Denis, asking after the men,” Esther held the letter up, to show she wasn’t lying, “He managed to find out that Pinkertons seized John. He’s gone to Sisika.” She licked her lips, waiting for shouts and groans, but none came. She realized that they had all probably suspected such a thing. Their eyes were red and stoic, but they all watched her, unblinking. “And, according to my friend, the rest of the men escaped on a ship bound for Cuba, but it sank. There’s no word of survivors.”

“Jesus,” Tilly breathed, and Mary-Beth covered her mouth with her hand. Karen’s jaw ground and worked.

“Wait,” Uncle protested, “Dutch, Arthur, Lenny, all ‘em… They’re just…”

“We can’t know for sure,” Charles said, standing to Esther’s right, “But her friend’s got no reason to lie. And it’s been a week with no word. This would explain it.”

“What are we going to do?” Mary-Beth might have sounded pathetic if her voice didn’t already match the looks on everyone else’s face. “Without Hosea… without Dutch…”

“We go our own way,” Karen said, gruff and harsh, “Just like we was before the gang.”

“You can do that,” Esther said, looking at her until she dropped her gaze, “No one’s stopping you. But none of us have anything worth anything. ‘Cept me. And me? I think we should go west, west of Blackwater.”

“And do what?” Tilly asked, not confrontational. She looked lost, adrift.

Esther shrugged, “Buy a bit of land. I have enough for that. It’ll be a place for us to stay, and we wouldn’t be run off, not legally at least. We can start again.”

“It’s as good a plan as any,” Grimshaw said begrudgingly. “We can’t stay here, eating turkey and beans, forever.”

Pearson folded his arms, eyebrows furrowed. Tilly grabbed Mary-Beth’s hand.

“It’s not like we have a wealth of options,” Strauss said, looking around, “I am the only one who can make legal money, and I can’t work here.”

“Looks like you’re in charge now Miss Esther,” Sadie’s voice cut across the growing silence.

Esther felt heat rise in her cheeks, “I just don’t want us to do anything stupid when we don’t have to. Moving west makes sense.”

“What if they survived?” Karen asked quietly, a broken note in her voice.

“I’ll leave a note here, just like I did in Shady Belle,” Sadie answered easily.

Esther looked at Karen again, and saw in the set of her jaw, the tilt of her head, that Karen was angry. Esther didn’t understand why.

“You’ll just give up on them like that?”

Ah. “This isn’t about giving up, and hoping,” Esther pointed out, “We die if we stay here. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But we have to move forward, or we will stay here and rot. That’s what I’m thinking about.” It wasn’t as if Esther didn’t want to sit on an overturned crate with a repeater across her lap and watch the road until she saw Grace come out of the trees. She would have liked nothing better than to do that. But she couldn’t. She had to keep moving forward, and she could not convince those who wanted to stay behind to come with her, so she would move forward without them. She wasn’t a rescuer, or a hero. She hadn’t even been the type to risk herself for others, until Arthur came along. Esther was stubborn and careful, an immovable force dragging this gang into tomorrow. She wouldn’t wait for them to make up their minds about it.

“Fine,” Karen said, not as much heat coming out as she probably meant to put behind it.

There was a heavy silence. It was uncomfortable. Their eyes still watched her, waiting for something.

“So when do we go?” Sadie prompted.

Esther nodded. Of course. She was in charge now… Somehow. “We’ll give it a couple of days. Anybody that wants to light out can do so, no hard feelings. Then Sadie will ride out to the nearest train station and go to Blackwater, I’ll send her ahead with some cash. Once she’s found us a place, she’ll wire back, and we’ll follow. We’ll meet up at Riggs. She’ll show y’all the new place. I’ll go on to Blackwater and buy it.”

“What if you get into trouble in Blackwater, and can’t tell us?” Charles asked.

“I won’t, but I’ll take Strauss with me, if it makes a difference.”

Mr. Strauss nodded, accepting his role. Charles also dipped his head, giving the plan his blessing.

“Alright then,” Esther huffed, afraid to show how the nerves were starting to get to her, “Mr. Pearson, do you have supper planned?”

The gang drifted apart, mostly quiet but for Uncle huffing over and over again, “What the hell are we going to do now?”

Charles touched her arm, “You okay?”

“No,” Esther breathed, “I’m going to take a walk. Make sure nobody gets up to trouble while I’m gone?”

“Sure,” Charles nodded. Quiet, perhaps, but his brown eyes were soft and understanding. It was almost enough to make her crumble right then. “Be careful.”

“I’m not going far.”

Esther took up Arthur’s pistol and started off down the road. She didn’t expect to run into anyone out here. The trees made their rustling noises, though Esther couldn’t feel much wind. It was stagnant and hot under their branches. The Spanish moss waved creepily in the non-existent breeze, and a bird cried out in the distance. She stepped off the road, sure to make lots of noise to spook off any snakes hiding in the undergrowth. Maybe it wasn’t smart. But she need just a little room to breathe.

She told herself that leaving Lakay wasn’t giving up hope. Moving to Blackwater was the right thing to do. Damned if it didn’t feel like she was leaving Arthur to die, though. _I’ll see you when I get back. I won’t be here._ The words rattled around in her brain, like balls on a billiards table. She looked at the gun in her hand. It needed to be cleaned. Distantly, Esther wondered if Arthur had ever killed anybody with it. Probably, given the life he lived.

She wasn’t abandoning him. She was taking care of the only thing he ever cared about, this gang, and their well-being. She remembered the way his eyes sparked all those weeks ago in that little alcove in Saint Denis. _If you try to hurt the gang, you’ll be making a mistake._ All he’d ever done was for the gang. It was her job to make sure that it survived, in some way.

That didn’t stop a selfish part of her wallowing in self-pity. Her parents had given her up. Bronte was dead. Arthur was dead. Anyone who had ever protected her and helped her were long-gone, except for maybe Fred, and he wanted her power and position, not _her._ It was incredibly lonely.

This was what living was. You find friends and then you lose them, one way or another. Nobody said anything about it was fair.

She tucked the pistol into her belt, and as the swamp started to get dark, she turned back. She’d told Charles she wouldn’t be going far, and she didn’t want him to worry.

As she approached the cabin, at first she thought something was wrong. There was noise and light pouring out of the main shack. Before she knew what was happening her skirt was in her fist and she was sprinting, her other hand on the pistol in her belt.

But as she shoved the door open and it hit the wall with a _crack_ , she didn’t find the trouble she was expecting. Faces turned to stare at her, mouths slowly closing from their surprise, eye going to hers then meaningfully cast down. Arthur sat in the middle of them all, skin on his ears and nose peeling, looking red as a beet and filthy. His eyes were bright as nickels when they turned on her, red-rimmed and looking like he’d just been drug through hell and back.

A bolt of lightening rooted her to the spot.

“Close the door, girl, you’ll let the bugs in,” Grimshaw groused, despite the already abundance of bugs inside the shack.

Esther’s brain was a vortex. She shook her head, trying to clear it, “Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to intrude,” and she reached over and shut the door behind her.

Now she was outside and Arthur was inside. Why had she done that? What was she doing? She wanted to be inside. She wanted to have Arthur in her arms, holding him, smelling him. He was alive. He was alive and here.

But she was outside. How had that happened? God, she was an idiot. Should she… Open the door again and go back in? Yes, she should do that.

But no, she had said they should leave… She had told Grimshaw they should leave, had voted for leaving Arthur and the gang behind. Oh, god. Maybe she wasn’t wanted in that shack. It felt hypocritical.

Her breath became shaky. Relief and guilt was settling into her bones like a cold, making her ache all over. He was alive. He was alive and she’d wanted to leave him behind. She stepped away from the shack where the light and the talk was starting to filter out again. She didn’t belong here.

The door suddenly swung open and Arthur strode out, looking like he was in a hurry, but pulled up short when he saw her, eyes locking onto her face in a stunned expression. She saw his lips were cracked and bled. He licked them before he said, “Esther.” Her name on his mouth was something else. It rumbled through her, shaking her to bits.

“Arthur.”

“You stayed.” Ah, that’s where the stunned confusion came from.

Her face felt hot and her eyes stung. For a moment it was hard to speak. She shrugged, “Felt like I was needed here.”

He nodded slowly, “I think you might’ve been.” Was he glad to see her? Was he still angry?

Esther noticed she was still holding onto the pistol, “This is yours,” she held it out to him, handle-first.

Arthur blinked and looked at it, “Why don’t you hold onto it? Since you ain’t got your own.”

After a moment, she took it back and tucked it into her belt, “Will the rest of the men follow you? Did they make it?”

“Yeah. Should follow me in the next few days. Got wrecked on an island called Guarma.”

“Guarma,” Esther breathed, remembering Bronte talk about the evils there. That’s where that last batch of slaves had been going. Arthur had _been_ there. What had he been doing? Why had it taken him so long to come back to her?

“Arthur!” Grimshaw burst out of the shack, looking left and right, and spotted them. “Arthur, you need to get washed up, and into fresh clothes.”

Esther took a step away, “I’m sorry, you probably want to rest.” _Don’t make a scene_ , she told herself.

He reached out and grabbed her arm, while waving Mrs. Grimshaw off. Mrs. Grimshaw looked at Esther with something in her eye, but stepped back inside with a grumble.

Arthur watched her go inside, then turned back to Esther, “You still plannin’ on leavin’?”

Esther looked up in his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “No,” she said softly, “Not unless you think I should.”

Arthur looked down at her, his burnt, weathered faced doing something complicated, “No, I don’t think you should.”

Something warm bloomed in Esther’s chest that she couldn’t help. She took a step closer to him, smelling sweat and blood and brine, “Then I won’t.”

Arthur cracked a smile, “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever listened to me, proper.”

She scowled, “I listen to you plenty, I just don’t always follow your advice.”

“Then that don’t rightly count as listenin’, does it? Now come on back inside.” Esther allowed his grip on her arm to slide down into her hand, and let him lead her back into the shack.

***

Esther had shown him to a cabin they used for washing up, and laid new clothes out on the chair inside for him. “You want me to stay?”

His eyes flicked over her, unsure, and a little shy. He needed a haircut, she thought, and he’s alive. A miracle that never seemed to lose its shine.

“Isn’t exactly anything I haven’t seen before,” Esther said, but she was shy too. Neither of them were quite sure where they stood after their fight.

Arthur puffed up, “I know that,” he scratched the back of his neck, “Jus’, I ain’t exactly somethin’ that should be seen, right now.”

_But I never want to stop looking at you again,_ Esther thought.

Esther smothered a smile at his pride. “You held me down while a bullet was dug out of my backside and now you’re holding out on me?”

“That was life or death. ‘S different.”

Esther sighed, “Just… Sit down and take your shirt off.”

After a wary look at her, he did so on a rickety chair by the wash bucket. If she had a magic horse that could fly them to Saint Denis, she’d order a hot bath with salts and all the bourbon the kitchen had for them both, and steak and potatoes for dinner, but she didn’t have a magic horse. Their imaginations would have to make do.

He gingerly peeled the old, sweat-stained shirt away from his skin. He hadn’t spoken much about Guarma at supper. He hadn’t spoken much about Hosea or the gang that was supposed to follow. They were clearly on his mind, but he was still pent-up about it. Esther walked behind him, reminding herself that in little ways, some men were all the same. She knocked on the wood wall of the shack, and pitched her voice a bit higher, “Need some help in there?”

She saw Arthur half-turn, crooked smile in profile. There was a pause, with the lone lamp in the corner casting their shadows huge and daunting across the floor. The bugs and frogs and small animals outside were loud, even through the walls of the shack, and it seemed like a mighty poor place to play pretend. She half expected him to make some joke at her expense, but instead he said, “Sure, why not?”

Esther smiled and approached from behind, dipping a hand into the bucket for the sponge so he couldn’t see her and started scraping the weeks worth of grime from his shoulders, “You just let me know if I’m scrubbing to hard, okay?”

“Okay.” She got his left arm done, not pausing over the bruises and cuts. That explanation could wait.

“So, how you doin’?” he asked, painfully non-chalant.

“Just fine.”

“Sorry if I smell,” he growled, and Esther had to bite down on her lip to keep a small giggle down. This was crazy. Absolutely crazy. He was _here._ In front of her. Alive. She managed to get the right arm done. The sponge was soaked once again and then applied to his hair, where she found a strange sandy clay caked in his scalp. She opened her mouth to ask him how on earth he’d gotten this filthy, but kept it in. Later.

When she reached over his shoulder to run the sponge down his front, he gripped her arm and pulled her in for a kiss. Lust and need hit Esther like a train. She had missed him. She had missed being able to count on his presence, steady and unflappable.

“You’ll have to pay extra for that, sir,” her voice was husky, matching his half-lidded eyes.

“I’m good for it,” Arthur pulled her around into his lap, “I’ll be gentle.” He covered her mouth with a kiss again.

She pulled away, something other than pleasure twisting in her gut, “I told them we should leave, Arthur.”

His callouses were gentle on the side of her face, his eyes glimmering and soft in the lamplight.

“I just… I thought you weren’t coming back, and I had to… we had to…” To her horror, her voice became thick and shaky.

“Hush girl,” And he pulled her into a hug. “You was just tryin’ to take care of my family. I won’t begrudge you that. Ya’ought to know better’n to think I’d be mad atcha.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Shush girl, I’m right here,” his hands found their way to the sides of her face, and made her look at him. What was in his face was so gentle it nearly broke her heart. His thumb moved to wipe a tear. “You know how scared I was in Guarma? That I’d never make it back here, I’d never see them or you ever again. But never once did I worry ‘bout your ability to take care of yourself. And that was somethin’ like a blessin’. I can’t quite describe it. I knew I could count on you, if I ever made it back to this godforsaken bit of country, I could find you and you’d still be… here. Waitin’ on me, even when you said you wouldn’t. Does that make any sense?”

“I think that makes perfect sense,” Esther breathed and sniffed thickly.

They held each other in the soft yellow of the lamplight a moment longer, the steady beat of their hearts slowly synchronizing together. Then Arthur straightened, “Why don’t you go on to the next room and let me clean up here, then I’ll come in and see you, alright?”

Good. That would give her time to find something to blow her nose on. “Alright.”

After a while, he came in and lay down on the cot that was rolled out, hair considerably shorter and a tan-line around his jaw.

“Fine enough for you, princess?”

Esther rolled her eyes and moved over from where she lay on the mattress, “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

Arthur shrugged and slowly folded his body to lay down beside her, “ ‘Cause it irritates you. Ever since our first job together – ah shit, my shoulder, - ever since our first job together, it’s irritated you.”

“So you call me that?” Esther said flatly, while pressing an experimental thumb into the joint of the offending arm.

“Ah, shit, no, don’t stop, it feels good,” Arthur seemed to melt and close his eyes under the gentle massage, “I ain’t a good man, Esther. Irritatin’ is ‘bout the best I can do.”

“I know you ain’t,” She breathed, pillowing her head on her arm and watching his profile, “And I suppose that’s why I like you so much. I don’t have to worry about… Softening up for you.”

He cracked an eye and looked over to her, “So you don’t feel… Precious, to me?”

For a moment, Esther was at a loss, confused, but then she remembered. It seemed like forever ago. The campfire, with all of them around it, and her, drunk. The bird. “Yeah, I guess,” impressed that he remembered that much.

“Well, you are precious to me. In your own way,” he said into the dark, damp air. “Suppose that sounds silly.”

“A bit,” Esther smiled, “Look at us. Two no-good crooks.” _Trying their best to hang on to one another, while they can. It would make a good song._

He cracked a smile, “What a pair we make.”

“Look out world,” Esther warned the dark.

“You’d be the brains, and I’d be the gun, like Hosea an’…” Arthur trailed off.

Esther didn’t say anything. She was bad at this kind of stuff. But she wanted to show Arthur she cared, so she buried her face into his shoulder. She was there. She was _there_ , and he was _alive._

His arm went around her shoulders. After a moment of silence, he turned to her, “You miss ‘im? Bronte?”

She stiffened, and reminded herself that he wasn’t after any kind of revenge. He was just asking. “No,” she surprised herself by saying. What Bronte and her had wasn’t love, not really. Now, with a little bit of distance, she could see her situation more clearly as one of a prisoner. Besides, the feeling of her freedom to form her own legacy was sweet, and it felt as if she could breathe for the first time in her life. “Maybe. No, I don’t think so. I suppose that makes me ungrateful.” Actually, Esther wasn’t sure. Was she expected to feel guilty about leaving her mentor?

Arthur just nodded once, thinking. His eyes glimmered in the lamplight from the next room, focused on the ceiling above them.

“Why?”

Arthur glanced at her. She felt his warm palm on her shoulder, could feel the weight of his deliberations, “Dutch… He ain’t been acting right, just recently. In Guarma, he… He wasn’t acting like he’d taught me to act.”

Esther watched his face, and it hit her like a wall, “You’re thinking of leaving?” He didn’t react. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and it hurt her. She wanted to shake the answer out of him.

“Can’t leave now,” Arthur said finally, “Not with John still missing, not with things as they are, but… I was thinking I could help the gang get set up somewhere, and maybe help Abigail convince John to get out…”

“I would help you,” Esther breathed, “I know you don’t like me causing trouble in the gang, but… I don’t think these folks realize that this only ever ends one way. Mary-Beth, Tilly, Karen, they could make decent lives elsewhere.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’. We’re bein’ hunted down, and it seems like we’re already payin’ for this life.” The death of Hosea pressed in on them, and whatever streak of rotten luck he’d had before Esther arrived. “I don’t want Jack to pay for it.”

Esther sat up on her elbow, sensing something more.

Arthur didn’t look at her, just stared at the ceiling, “I got a girl pregnant, some time ago. Boy and his mama got killed over eight dollars. I wasn’t there.” His eyes were distant.

Esther laid back down, quiet. The silence and the weight of his words pressed in on them both. She of all people knew that just because someone has a child doesn’t mean they’re loved. It doesn’t mean the parent is going to be a parent. But that didn’t strike Esther as the case here. Arthur was full of a darkness, and anyone could see that. Maybe this was the origin of a little bit of that darkness.

“John’s a fool, but he don’t deserve that, I guess,” she felt him breathe out.

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed, unable to say anything else. What could you possibly say to that?

He turned over onto his shoulder to look at her, “And you’d help me get the boy and his mama to safety, and his daddy too?”

“Of course,” Esther said, without hesitation, “Whatever you need.”

His hand came up to her face, a rough thumb moving along her jaw to her chin, “Why? You don’t owe us nothin’. You repaid us by keepin’ these folks safe and looked after.”

“You and me work better together,” Esther shrugged. It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go, but… She had enough money she could go to Saint Denis and marry some rich man and spend the rest of her days in comfort. Fred obviously wanted her back. But the thought of leaving Arthur’s side again was almost too much to bear. “You don’t think so?”

Arthur cracked a smile for what seemed like the first time all evening, “I didn’t say that.”

“Wherever you go, I’m coming too,” Esther said.

Arthur stared at her in the dark, his thumb still moving gently under her bottom lip. She didn’t quite understand the emotion that rippled over his face, but she also didn’t want to disturb it. After a minute, he leaned in and kissed her sweetly, his shaved cheek still rough on hers. Pleasure bloomed in her mind, her thoughts going warm and fuzzy. Her stomach tugged, the pressure of his absence finally gone and her raw need for him coming back in full-force.

She thought of his darkness, and thought it wasn’t so bad. She had a little bit of that as well. Perhaps that’s why they got on so nice.

His kiss became hungrier, and the weight in her belly grew. Her moan was soft and low, coaxed out of her from the way his hand ran over the back of her dress to the small of her back, pressing her to him, possessive and needy.

At the sound of it he started pulling up her button-down and kissing her neck while his concentration moved. Esther quickly undid the rest of his shirt, which was only half-buttoned anyway, and worked at his belt.

#

“Did ya miss me, sweetheart?” Arthur breathed.

“Don’t be smug,” Esther let out an uncharacteristic giggle, leaning her head back so he could run his lips over her collarbone. The weight got heavier.

She stood and pulled her shirt over her head, then undid and kicked away her pants. None of the girls in camp wore corsets – too expensive and uncomfortable for living in Lakay, - so all that was left was a combination.

Arthur had successfully pried his top half out of his union suit, and Esther paused, breath catching in her throat. He noticed. “What?”

Esther landed on the cot on her knees and leaned forward, “I forgot what you look like proper with your shirt off, mister Morgan.” Her fingers pressed at the large scar on his shoulder, the smaller ones slicing their way over his chest and arms. It was fascinating. She could do this all night.

Arthur watched her, smirking, “You’ll probably get a few of your own, runnin’ with me.”

“Oh, darlin’, you mean it?” Esther cocked her head leaned in to kiss the spot below his ear that he always seemed to like, “Take the rest of it off.”

He did so, wiggling and kicking off the jeans and then the rest of the union suit. _Christ, he’s a pretty man,_ Esther thought, a little miffed he’d hidden it from her for so long.

“Ain’t you gunna get undressed?”

“In a bit. Tell me what else I’ll get, running with you.” She licked her hand as he watched and applied attention at the bit of him crying out for it.

Arthur groaned, leaning in to her, kissing her, running his hands up her legs and her knees. One hand delved between her thighs, feeling the soft skin there, rubbing at the muscle at the crease in her thigh. He was being patient for now, “Watchu think,” his voice was low and smokey, “Sixty-forty split?”

“In your favor?” Esther asked, trying to keep the tension out of her voice, “I don’t think so.”

He edged closer, “It only makes sense. I’m the one with more robbin’ experience.”

“And look where that’s gotten you-.” She broke off as his head dipped to her chest and he bit at her through the combinations, thumb still massaging that muscle in her thigh. “Fuck, Arthur.”

That was the last thing they said to each other. He quickly undid the buttons holding her underwear together and she kicked it aside, going quickly into his lap. His arms held her close, their skin sticking together in the muggy air of the swamp, that weight at her center like a stone now. Her core was absolutely throbbing. They both gasped when he finally slipped inside her, foreheads pressed together. One arm braced them both, while the other came up to the back of her neck and held her against him.

They rocked together, moving slowly, alternating arching into one another. Esther’s legs wrapped around him, one hand on his knee to keep herself balanced and the other on the side of his face. His free hand had settled on her hip and helped her move, fingertips digging into the flesh there.

His face moved from hers and a broken moan seemed to trickle out of him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. Her free hand reached up and ran through his hair. She wasn’t going to last long, but she was going to enjoy this. They weren’t making up now, they were just taking their time. He was alive, and here. Esther kissed his temple, trying to convey just how much she missed him, and he held her tighter.

Suddenly his rhythm started to speed up, and he pressed against that spot inside her that made her brain fog over in pleasure. Esther gasped softly into his ear, as his breathing became harsher and more like gravel.

The hand on his knee came up to his shoulder, trying to give her the leverage to grind harder. Jesus, she was close. She was so fucking close, and so was Arthur, and she could feel her stomach start to twitch, and… then she was letting go again, a shallow whimper her only sound as pleasure bright and keen arced from her toes to her ears, “Arthur?” It came out a question, though she hadn’t intended it to.

“Esther,” Her name broken and barely mumbled, but she heard it, and it made her let out something half a cry and half a sigh.

The rocking ebbed, but he didn’t let them part just yet. He wanted to hold her, and Esther found she didn’t mind it so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #  
> Esther understands that even as a BAMF she need to take a walk sometimes and that’s okay.  
> #  
> Scientific fact: People in love can sync their heartbeats. https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/02/130213093220.htm


	17. All That Ever Mattered

Javier and Lenny returned next. It seemed that the gang would be returning in bits and pieces over the next few days, as they could. Their welcome was warm and loud, as it had been with Arthur’s. Esther saw the hope begin to creep in as the men slowly returned, and things seemed back on track to return to normal. Micah’s celebration was noticeably cooler. Esther could see that didn’t sit well with him. His watery eyes narrowed and he grumbled and his laugh got louder. There was that weird, manic energy again. She didn’t trust it one bit. She didn’t trust the hope either. The arithmetic of this the hope didn’t add up. Esther didn’t notice enough changing happening to warrant it.

“Why does Micah stick around?” She asked Arthur later that afternoon, as the light filtered through the trees away from camp and they waded through the grass with shotguns nestled in their arms. “He doesn’t seem to… match with other folk in the gang.”

Arthur shook his head, “At first, thought it was just Dutch picking up an extra stray, just like the rest of us, but after Guarma…” his voice trailed off, eyes far-away, “Dutch ain’t thinkin’ straight. I think Micah has something to do with it.”

Esther held back on the advice she so badly wanted to give, looking away and watching the horizon for movement. Not her gang. Though she had pretended it was, for a short while.

“You can say it,” Arthur growled, “I can hear you thinkin’ from over here.”

Esther glanced at him and found him smirking at her. She shook her head, “He just… He isn’t hanging around for the rest of us, you know? He’s waiting for Dutch. Just Dutch. He’s got a vested interest I’m not quite trustful of.”

Arthur’s eyes turned thoughtful, “I didn’t really see it that way… But you’re right. Somethin’s the matter with ‘em.”

Something flew up in front of her and Esther got off a shot, missed, and Arthur took it down, the blur of feathers exploding up in mid-air. It landed in the grass, easy enough to find. She thought dully of how tasteless Pearson was going to render it later and put the dead quail in a game sack tied off to her belt. When she looked up again, Arthur was smirking at her, something ornery in his eyes.

“What?” She asked, wiping away a strand of hair that had plastered to her face and gotten caught in the sweaty crease of her eyelid.

“Just thinkin’ ‘bout how much I like you in them pants, is all.” He walked over to her, “You ain’t so high and mighty now, Miss Dobranoc, huntin’ for birds with an outlaw,” and he moved his shotgun to one hand and put the other on her hip.

“No accounting for taste,” Esther rolled her eyes.

He slowly maneuvered her up against a nearby tree, still smiling that soft, teasing smile. “Think I like you like this. What you think of you an’ me, when this is done with, you an’ me gettin’ a ranch out west somewhere. You can do my washin’.”

Esther chuckled, low in her throat, and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, “You wanna keep me barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, Mr. Morgan?” Neither of them had forgotten her confession from Ambarino, but it was okay to tease and to dream.

He growled in response and leaned in to kiss her. Damn, but it was sweet.

“Someplace in Big Valley, maybe,” he sighed between kisses.

_Mmm,_ Esther muttered in return, “I can keep books for a local rancher.”

“Reckon I can…” his sentence broke off in a groan, “…I can,” his lips were on hers, nearly mouthing the words, “Give that trapper that travels around some competition.”

The quality of these dreams were intoxicating, and hard to leave. How easy they came to her. She pushed against his chest, and he let her go. “We should get back, it’ll be dark soon.”

“Can we do somethin’ later?”

“Depends on what you have in mind.”

“I’m sure I can think of a few options.”

As they walked back to Lakay, Esther felt his hand slide into hers. The move shocked her. Arthur wasn’t really the hand-holding type, and neither was she. Last night’s romp must have really done a number on them both, because Esther found she didn’t really mind. She ran her thumb over his, feeling the bones and the joints, enjoying his touch.

“You really think this’ll end soon?” Esther said softly, rolling over in her mind what he’d said.

Arthur sighed, dipping his face so that his hat hid his expression, “Dutch is… Different. With Hosea gone, the only thing that was temperin’ ‘em, I don’t know… I think it is. But I think, with some of your smarts, the others can have a fighting chance to get gone and stay hid from the law.”

“But not you?” Esther asked, heart twisting painfully, “Is this that… Debt, you told me about once?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, sounding tired. “I just know I gotta see this thing through. I was there in the beginning. I’m gunna be there in the end.”

“And if it kills you?” Esther tried to hide the tension in her voice, because she understood, truly she did. She would have said the same thing about Bronte had she not discovered the slaving. But she had found out about his secrets. She’d discovered the betrayal before it played out.

Arthur didn’t answer her, so she stopped walking. He did as well.

“Arthur,” she shook her head, “I know how much you hate listening to my advice. But listen to me now, okay?” They were still holding hands.

Arthur nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek, looking distracted but not ignoring her. He looked like he was thinking over what she was about to say, as if he already knew.

“I helped dismantle Bronte piece by piece. I guess I was lucky, because I had time to make my peace with it. Or at least, we hashed it out, confronted it in the end, you know? And it just about killed me, if it weren’t for you. I owe you for that. So when I tell you, that I’ll try my damnedest to do the same for you, you’ll believe me, right?”

He looked at her. Eyes bright and tender. “Esther, don’t do nothin’ stupid on my account.”

“Then don’t do anything that makes me do something stupid,” Esther said simply, “For my sake, okay? I’m not going tell you this is a stupid idea and you’re being an obstinate moron, because you already know that, but you should know… Your life isn’t really yours, you know? You have people that care about you, and will do stupid things because you do stupid things.” Esther shook her head, “I’m rambling. Just… You’re not some lone hero, alright? You got me and John and Abigail and Charles, and I think Sadie likes you a lot… Okay?”

Arthur nodded, “Okay.”

“You need to plan an escape, too.”

Arthur just sighed, and for a long moment she thought he’d just shrug her off, but then he nodded, “I’m listenin’.”

“Thank you,” Esther breathed, feeling battered, like she’d just won a sizable victory. Maybe she had. He squeezed her hand, and it put a smile on her face.

* * *

Dutch returned that night.

It was like light had been restored to camp. Esther could feel the thrill of his presence run through the room where she’d been mending clothes with Mary-Beth, her sewing skills finally up to par to do real work. But when she looked, she saw immediately what Arthur meant in the woods. The man was different. There was a more desperate air about him, something fraying his edges. He was unshaven and filthy from travel, and his smile was wan while his eyes seemed bright and brittle. She had first met him in a crashed tram, and he didn’t seem so far from that now.

Immediately people were on him, congratulating him, greeting him, asking him for direction, telling him what had happened to them, and Abigail clawing at him and pulling at him, trying to tell him about John.

“Okay, okay,” Dutch said, eyes swinging around, trying to take everything in, “Can somebody get me a cup of coffee, or something?” laughed, and soon enough one appeared in his hands. Abigail looked more desperate than ever, her eyes pleading at Dutch to look at her.

Abigail hadn’t been speaking to Esther the past two days, not since she first heard of her plans to move west, away from John. Esther understood her anger, on one level. On another, she found it deeply frustrating and sad that her friend didn’t trust her on this. Now, as Esther watched, she could see her hope of Dutch riding out immediately after John withering.

Esther was smiling and nodding along with the rest of them, but her eyes were watching the others. That bright, improbable hope was shining out of most of their faces, but this Dutch was new. Sadie must have sensed the change too. Her eyes were hard as Dutch thanked her for looking out for the gang. “And Miss Dobranoc,” Strauss said, adding an abbreviated version of events over the past week.

“Miss Dobranoc,” Dutch said, turning to her, “I must admit, I am surprised to see you still here. But you have my thanks for keeping this gang together and safe.” Miss Grimshaw grunted.

Esther pretended not to notice, and nodded, “Of course, Dutch. I couldn’t leave with y’all like this.”

“Well,” Dutch’s tone implied that she very much could have left, and he would have thanked her for it, “I appreciate all you’ve done here,” his dark eyes looked around at the sweaty, dirty faces surrounding him, looking to him for guidance. Suddenly, Esther could feel it, Hosea’s absence. This is the part where Hosea would say something half-sensible. But he wasn’t here. “We’ve had… some tough times. Ain’t no doubt about that,” Dutch shook his head.

Esther looked at Arthur, sitting on a crate across the room. His face was unreadable, but his eyes watched Dutch’s every move. Was he really buying this? It was too hard to tell.

Dutch went on, “But this ain’t over.”

There was a loud bang, and Bill Williamson stormed into the room, voice as loud and whiny as when she’d first heard it: “Well here you is!” He seemed surprised by how small the room was, full of angry energy, and paced, “I asked everyone where you all was, and here you is! Get me a drink or somethin’,” he spat at Sadie.

“Get your own damn drink!” Sadie shot back.

“Sadie,” Dutch said in a voice that commanded Bill’s attention, “Has been keeping an eye on things while we’ve been away.”

Meanwhile Esther could only comprehend what Williamson had half-shouted, _I asked everyone where you all was._ What did he mean by that? Esther set the sewing aside, throwing an alarmed look at Arthur, but he wasn’t looking at her.

As if it had read her mind, a nasty-sounding voice called from outside, “Mr. Van der Linde!” Esther felt the temperature in the cabin drop ten degrees. “Mr. Van der Linde, this is the Pinkerton Detective Agency!”

Arthur finally turned to her, eyes wide. She saw fear there, but also anger, a flinty kind of rage that she recognized. Adrenaline rushed through her, making her heart pound and her fingertips sting. She looked to Charles and Sadie, who were also exchanging looks. The voice from outside was still shouting at them, which was fine by Esther. If he was shouting, he wasn’t shooting.

But then he stopped shouting. “Everyone on the floor!” Esther screamed, rolling onto the filthy boards so hard her hip bruised. A moment later, the shack filled with screams and noise. Splinters flew over their heads, a rhythmic _tat tat tat tat tat tat_ like a hundred hammers striking tin sheet metal over and over again overlaying everything.

Esther breathed. She was alive, and she was focused. She saw Sadie against the far doorway, shrinking to her knees and crawling away, Arthur moving to follow. Esther moved, squinting against the dust that stung her eyes and the chaos around her, led by the glint off of Arthur’s spurs. Her old bullet wound was killing her, crawling like this, but she could deal with that later. A lamp exploded ahead, and Arthur cursed. Esther didn’t blink, just kept crawling.

Sadie led them outside, onto the dock, where wind whipped around them but the echo of gunfire no longer sounded like it was coming from all around them. There was no time to think, no time to curse Bill and his stupidity. They were all focused on survival now. They each hopped down into the mud below the shack, the chaos not quite so close in the dark. Arthur saw her follow and made a face, but didn’t object, just muttered a, “Well keep up then,” as Sadie led them away and around the river bank. Esther risked a peek over the edge, but the twenty or so men staring with tense, angry faces at the shack being torn apart didn’t notice them. Their shotguns and rifles glinted in the moonlight, and in the light of the Gatling gun. Where the hell had they gotten their hands on one of those? Bronte had only ever dealt them to wealthy fascist generals rich enough to buy them, like the one in Guarma.

“Where the hell did they get one of those?”

“Does that really matter now, Esther?” Sadie hissed. They crawled up into the darkened room of the next shack, and Arthur quickly began looking for weapons.

“It matters because if we survive this, they’ll come back with more,” Esther whispered, trying to keep her voice level. “This isn’t just some hired thug business. There’s real money at stake here.”

“It’s Cornwall,” Arthur told her, tossing her a repeater, which she pumped experimentally.

“Leviticus Cornwall?” Esther quickly ran over all the details she knew about the gang in her mind. “The oil baron? How the fuck does he even know you exist?” But of course. Fred’s letter. How could she forget?

And the very first night Esther and Arthur had spoken to each other, when she tracked him upstairs to the mayor’s office. He’d found something from Cornwall he’d found very interesting.

“Shit, Arthur,” Esther took up a position by the door, gun pulled against her shoulder, sweaty hands trying to keep a firm grip.

“Now’s not really the time,” Arthur grumbled, but didn’t sound like he begrudged her the exasperation. He knelt and peaked through the door. The voice was shouting again, now that there was a pause in the gunfire. He leaned back, shaking his head, and looked at her.

Esther didn’t know what Arthur was looking for, but she nodded, and he straightened, “This idiot’s really startin’ to irritate me.” Sadie tossed him another repeater, and he kicked the door open.

Before Esther realized what she was doing, she was at Arthur’s side, firing rapid shots into the scattering bodies of the Pinkertons. This she was familiar with. This she could do, knew how to handle. As she saw movement and pale, angry faces, she pulled the trigger, and when she knew instinctually by the number of shots she’d fired that she was getting low on ammo, she dived forward and turned the gunfight into something more personal.

Knives are much faster than guns, and much deadlier in close quarters, anyone who’s been in a bar brawl will tell you. A bullet can punch a hole in you, tumble around, graze you, but a knife will kill you hours after it touches you. It wasn’t fair. But Esther didn’t want to give these men fair. One of them had a hunting knife on him, and she used it to slice and stab, feeling the grind of bone and squelch of flesh, a revenant of every fighting lesson Bronte’s tutors had imparted on her. She heard Dutch shouting in the distance, and saw Bill running after some Pinkertons. No. None of them could get away. They had tried to hurt Arthur, hurt Jack and Abigail and Sadie and Charles and the rest, and they couldn’t be allowed to get away.

They needed to pay for their mistake, they needed to know who they were reckoning with. She saw one Pinkerton man grab another and shove him towards her. A man in charge. Maybe the one who was shouting, even. Esther raced forward, eating a punch from the thug shoved at her to bury the knife in his stomach, twisted away, and pitched after the fleeing bastard.

He was fast, but not fast enough. Esther leapt forward and tackled his feet, dragging him down into the mud. Her knees pinned him into the dirt in an instant, right leg cast out to keep his hand pinned with her boot, the other between his shoulder blades at the top of his spine where she knew it’d hurt.

His other hand flailed, trying to reach for her, but she pinned it with her left hand. It brought her close enough to put the knife to the back of his skull.

“You’re making a mistake!” he spat, still full of righteousness, still thinking he had the upper hand.

Esther gave it some thought. She knew who he worked for. She knew why he was here. What did she have to keep him around for? “How so?” she asked, and he stilled, reacting to the calmness of her voice.

“Who the fuck are you?” he thrashed, but her grip was like iron, “Some new stray?”

“You could call me that,” Esther wasn’t particularly interested in putting a label on it, she was much more interested in how tired her arm was getting and how boring this man was becoming to her, “Why should I keep you alive?”

“I…” the tenor of her voice must have taken the spirit out of him, “I can make you rich!”

“Is that the best you can do?” Esther was thoroughly disappointed.

“Please, I can-.” But he never finished the sentence. She left the knife buried at the back of his skull, and rolled his body over, looking around as she did so. It looked like the fight was over. Gunshots no longer rang out in the night, apart from Micah stalking around and putting a bullet in the head of anything Pinkerton-shaped that moved.

Arthur ran up to her in the dark, breathing heavily, covered in fine red speckles. Blood, it seemed. “Esther, shit you scared me. I couldn’t find you.”

“Didn’t make it very far,” she smiled up at him, then nodded down at the body of the Pinkerton at her feet, “Didn’t really have anything new to share, so I thought to put him out of his misery.”

Arthur looked at him for a moment, recognition blooming in his eyes. His lips parted, “That’s Agent Milton.”

“Oh? Old friend, is he?” Esther smiled, but stopped, when she saw Arthur’s expression, “Or something more?”

Arthur shook his head, face doing something complicated, “He was after us a long while. Dutch oughtta know. Dutch!” Arthur waved for the fearless leader to come over to them. Esther stood, interested in how Dutch would react to Esther doing something useful for the group.

But as Dutch walked over, his face was stormy and dark. Micah saw where he was headed, and slunk over. Suddenly, Esther didn’t like this one bit.

“Esther killed Milton,” Arthur gestured to the cold body covered in blood and mud, “Thought you oughtta know.”

Dutch looked from Arthur to the shell that was Milton, this infamous thug, apparently. The stormy look in his eyes didn’t abate. A cold glitter was there, something that thought and calculated. What was he thinking?

“Well, that’s just great,” Dutch huffed finally, after a very heavy silence. Esther blinked. He looked up at her, “Did it never occur to you, in your infinite wisdom, that we could have used him alive?”

“Why?” Esther asked, completely off-balance, “We know who sent him. We know who’s funding him. What was there to find out?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dutch’s voice was taught as a bowstring, “Perhaps it would have been useful to find out how they found us.”

Something of what Esther was about to say must have cross her face first, because Arthur but an arm in front of her to silence her, “Ain’t this a good thing Dutch? With Milton dead, we can-.”

“With Milton dead, we’re right back where we started. How do they keep finding us, Arthur? We may never know, now!”

“You’re positive it wasn’t Bill, asking every man, woman, and child if they knew where to find us?” Esther snapped, patience suddenly very thin. Fucking _Dutch._ Of course he’d look right over the obvious. He was so wrapped up in himself he didn’t see what was right in front of his face.

“Gunna blame Bill for this?” Micah suddenly pipped up, casting a hand around them. The dark hid most of the bloodshed, but Esther could already smell it. The sweet, rotten smell not just of blood, but guts and body fluids.

“If it’s Bill’s fault, sure.”

“Bill’s been in this gang a lot longer than you have, Miss Dobranoc,” Dutch said, “You best be careful about what you say about him in front of me.”

Arthur had been shaking his head, “Bill messed up, Dutch, you heard him yourself. What could Milton have told us that we don’t already know?”

“How do they keep finding us, Arthur? The train, the bank job. They knew we were commin’, and I’m just lookin’ for answers!” Dutch seemed about to break, his eyes bright and manic. Esther hadn’t known about the other times. Micah took a step back, and his eyes glanced around, then landed on Esther.

“We been sloppy, Dutch! It don’t take a genius to see that-!” Arthur said.

“Doubts, all this doubt, all of a sudden. You’d think I could get a little bit more goddamn faith after takin’ your ass off that island intact-.”

“Don’t you think it’s awfully convenient,” Micah spoke over their argument, which had brought the eyes of most of the camp on them, “boss? That Esther is the one that finally managed to get close enough to kill Milton?”

“What are you trying to say, Micah?” Esther said through clenched teeth. She could smell the scheming coming off of him. Smell the degradation.

“We been tryin’ to outrun him for months, and she gets him off our backs, without so much as a ‘how ya do’ to him?” Micah’s eyes flashed from Esther to Milton’s body to Dutch, who looked even angrier. “And now we can’t ask him any inconvenient questions.”

“Listen to me,” Esther hissed, “You sniveling-.” She took a step forward, and Dutch’s gun was drawn and aimed at her, and Arthur was half in front of her, arm out.

“Dutch, Esther would never-.”

“How would you know!?” Dutch snapped, the mania in his face finally coming out in small breaks in his voice, “How would you know what she would and would not do? You don’t know her, Arthur, just because you found somebody to sleep in your bed.”

She saw Arthur tense, “I know her well enough. She stayed here and took care of things. Look around, she’s the reason these folks have stayed alive-.”

“Who’s to say she just wasn’t planning on recruiting for a gang of her own?” Micah needled, “She had one in Saint Denis. Shit, she might’ve been planning this from the beginning.” For once, Esther thought that gave her an undue amount of credit, but she couldn’t speak for fear her voice would break in fury.

“You’ve been coverin’ for her for far too long, son,” Dutch’s tone had an awful finality to it. Arthur had lied for her to be taken care of by the gang, Esther had forgotten that. Shit.

Esther’s stomach began to sink. Adrenaline, fading from the fight, surged back into her. Did they really think she was a rat? How could they? She looked around at the gang, at the faces still recovering from another near-escape. They looked fearful.

Sadie looked pissed, but not at her, “Am I hearin’ this right? Dutch, that woman has helped keep our heads above water-.”

“This is none of your concern, Mrs. Adler!”

“You don’t think it’s weird that as soon as we show back up, so do the Pinkertons?” Javier shouted at Sadie, who turned, ignoring Dutch, and started to give him a piece of her mind.

“Bill walked into camp screaming about how he’d been talkin’ ‘bout us from here to Annesberg,” Arthur said, “I think that’s far more likely that some fuckin’ mole in camp, Dutch, especially Esther betrayin’ us.”

Micah shook his head, “I think you’ve got a blind spot a mile wide, cowpoke.”

Esther fought the urge to turn and run. That’s what she should’ve done in Bronte’s office. That’s what she should do now. But turning and running would make her look guilty, and that would put Arthur at risk. He was in this too now. She couldn’t abandon him because of her shitty mistakes.

“She tried to get us to leave you to rot,” suddenly Ms. Grimshaw was in the mix, storming up to them with a shotgun.

Tilly was running after her and snagged the woman’s arm, almost getting knocked down in the process, “She was lookin’ out for us and you damn-well know that, Grimshaw!” That one surprised Esther. She hadn’t realized that Tilly had been won over. Tilly met Esther’s astonished look, “She kept us alive and pushin’ forward ‘til the boys came back. I’m glad Milton’s dead!”

Dutch lowered his gun. “Well,” he said in his ridiculous, speech-voice. But it had an edge to it, “Seems you’ve done a mighty fine job of splitting this family clean in two.”

Even Esther couldn’t disagree with that. Her mouth was dry.

Dutch’s dark eyes bore into her, “I see you around this camp again, and I will put a hole in your brain myself.” Esther said nothing, but scrubbed all emotion from her face. He looked away, “Get out of my sight.”

“Dutch-,” Arthur started, and frankly Esther was surprised he had the nerve. So too did Dutch. He silenced the man with a hard stare that promised retribution.

Esther began to back up, heart pounding. Arthur turned at the sound of her footsteps, eyes desperate and pleading. _Please, don’t._

_I have to._

_Stay, I’ll work it out._

_This ain’t something that can be worked out._

She walked away towards the horses, where Cuez was still standing, ears pricked forward and skittish from the gunfight. It seemed impossibly far away. The urge to sprint, to flee, was almost overwhelming, but she couldn’t be seen to flinch. Any sign of weakness and something in the air might snap, and she had no idea what that meant.

Some of the camp ignored her walk of shame. Some stared after her. Abigail took a breath as if she was going to say something as Esther walked past, but didn’t. Esther heard Dutch already barking out orders.

When she got to Cuez, she was surprised to see Arthur had followed her, despite the implicit order not to do so. “You ain’t gotta-,” he started.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Esther breathed, “As much as I wish it were otherwise. And you got people here to take care of first.” She swung herself into the saddle, hating how much it sounded like goodbye.

“Ain’t fair,” Arthur said, a sliver of anger running through the desperation.

“That’s certainly true,” Esther admitted, then a thought occurred to her, and she leaned down, close to his ear, “The money’s in the sack next to the girls’ things. Make sure you get to it before Micah does. Keep it safe. We’ll need it before long.”

He gripped her hand, and nodded, icy blue eyes determined. This wasn’t goodbye. They had promised each other plans and schemes and freedom, and those promises weren’t meant to be broken.

“I’ll figure something out,” Esther’s voice sounded sure, but a lot more emotional than she’d wanted it to.

“I know you will,” Arthur said, “Never doubt it.”

She let go of his hand with a squeeze, and turned Cuez out of camp, kicking him into a gallop. They didn’t slow down, she didn’t allow herself to cry, until dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking of starting a playlist, since I comment out songs so often. This chapter was written to "Keep Your Rifle By Your Side (reinterpretation)" from the Far Cry 5 OST. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RjcSAaUzbI  
> #  
> I couldn’t kill my sweet Summers boy.   
> #  
> We now in ACT III y’all!


	18. Estera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't feature a lot Arthur & gang, but lots of plot!

Esther combed her hair slowly with a bamboo brush, imported from oriental colonies. She dabbed oil into her palm, imported from Morocco, and worked it through the ends. She braided it loosely and pinned it up with a jade comb, imported from France, embossed in gold. The dress she wore was brand new, imported from London. Fred had bought it for her the day she arrived on his back doorstep, let in by two astonished maids. He said her pants and shirt stank to high heaven, and couldn’t possibly be worn around his house. That was a joke, mostly.

He’d fed her and sworn the small staff to secrecy. No one was to know that the princess in exile had returned. Right now, she was an ace up his sleeve, and Esther didn’t begrudge that. He was helping her, after all. He was being a good friend by letting her stay, not asking for anything in return. Besides flirting over dinner, he hadn’t even made overtures towards her. He must have sensed that Esther wouldn’t have been receptive in this time and place.

The tall windows gave her plenty of light to see her reflection in the mirror. There were dark circles under her eyes. The bed should have given her the best night’s sleep in weeks, but she couldn’t find true rest. Abigail. Jack. Mary-Beth. Grimshaw. Karen. Tilly. Charles. Arthur. Their faces chased after her as she galloped away. Her parent’s forms disappeared in fog. Bronte tried to drag her under the swamp. The nightmares were intensifying. So despite her standard of living being restored to what it had been almost two months ago, what might be considered “normal,” she couldn’t feel relaxed.

Besides. Esther needed a plan. She had spoken with Fred about the moonshiners in Rhodes, but he’d sadly shaken his head and told her that their stills had been destroyed by the local townsfolk. Of course. Esther had been ignorant. Without Bronte’s protection, they didn’t stand a chance.

But Fred Walsh always surprised her. He had always been smarter and luckier than she gave him credit for, and last night he’d proved it.

“I’ve had a letter,” he said, “from a gang in Blackwater.”

Esther eyed him over her glass of wine.

“Okay,” he waved his hand, nonchalant, “I wrote them first. But I have a plan. I think they can help you, us, get Saint Denis back.”

“You never lost Saint Denis,” Esther said, smirking, “Unless you’ve done something awful I haven’t heard about. You’re still a rising star in the police department.”

Fred ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t want to be a clerk forever, Esther. You know that.”

“And you think that this ascendency has something to do with… me?”

He leaned forward, big green eyes earnest, “If you’ll let me, I can help us both. Please, Esther.”

Something about this required her cooperation. This was the moment he’d pull her out of his sleeve, his winning hand. Esther thought about how difficult it would be to escape in the night and light out to the edge of the world. Strawberry? Tumbleweed? Instead, she unclenched that instinctual reaction to loss of control, consciously reminding herself that she was not in charge. And Fred had done nothing to challenge her faith in him yet.

“Alright. I’ll bite. Who are these people?”

As he explained the scheme over the next few minutes – it was elegant and simple, but no less difficult for that – she was skeptical. However, she found the more she worked at it in her mind, the more she rolled around the alternatives in her head, she found that it really was the most sensible option.

“When do I meet them?”

“Tomorrow. The… er, boss wants to interview you tomorrow at 3.”

Esther sat back, chewing her cheek, “Doesn’t exactly give me time to prepare.”

“I think they meant it that way. I only just got word myself, today.”

He didn’t ask if she’d agree to the meeting. He knew she would. She owed him that much.

And so Esther stood up from the mirror, leaned forward to adjust the jade comb in her hair, and left the guest bedroom for the study. She was nervous. Esther was so used to the feeling by now that it was just another part of her brain she’d sectioned off, but this was a new kind of nervousness. This was the nervousness of _losing._ These past few weeks, that nervousness had been focused on keeping the gang safe, desperately wishing that Arthur was alive, and trying to figure out what she would do if he didn’t return. Fred had explained his plan to her, and it seemed fair enough. It was beneficial to them both. But while he had been talking, something else had occurred to her. She thought about what she could do with her power for the Van der Linde gang. Her promise to Arthur still rang in the back of her mind: _I’ll figure something out._ That had made the clerk’s plan very appealing indeed. She did not dare look at the gossamer framework of the plan too closely, for fear it might blow apart under inspection.

The study wasn’t where Fred did his work, but since he was a gentleman of a certain standing and of a certain age, it was expected he had one. That said, she could see little touches of him around the room. Obscure political texts were well-worn next to classics that were thick with dust. A sword hung on the wall, which Esther knew for a fact had never been used, but something Fred kept as a joke about the “old guard,” of the city. And, of course, the framed woodwork stamp of Niccolò Machiavelli, his idol. Seeing it made Esther smile. Of _course_ Fred loved Machiavelli. They were both romantics, though pragmatists at their core.

“Ma’am,” one the maids said behind her, and Esther turned. The woman kept her eyes on the floor, and stepped aside for an old woman with a cane to slowly shuffle in. The old woman’s eyes went to the maid’s face, then to Esther’s face, then around the room, shrewd and unforgiving with coal-black eyes. The maid scurried out, shutting the door behind her.

Esther dipped a slow curtsey, knowing that it was far too formal for an American business meeting, but she had a sneaking suspicion that this meeting was not based on American traditions. Inferred from what Fred had told her, this woman would more than likely have one foot planted firmly in the old world. Esther glanced up and saw that the woman’s hair was abnormally thick and dark for one of her age. A wig. _No,_ Esther thought, _She did not leave the Old Country completely._

“ _Sholem aleikhem_ ,” Esther said carefully. In all of Bronte’s lessons, he hadn’t bothered to force her to keep up her Yiddish.

The woman’s eyes stopped their roving and landed on Esther. Their weight was almost physically heavy, “You say it like it hurts your mouth, shikse. Do not embarrass yourself. We will talk in English.”

Esther felt the heat rise to her cheeks at the insult, but stayed calm. Her weeks of putting up with Grimshaw had taught her how to stay quiet when she needed to. The old woman peered at her from across the room.

“The boy. Walsh,” Her accent was barely detectable, but there. Just a slightest friction over the ‘W,’ which so badly wanted to turn into a ‘V,’ “How much did he tell you of us?”

“Just that you are a Jewish cohort out of Blackwater, seeking a foothold in Saint Denis,” Esther said carefully, not sure how the woman would feel about terms like _gang_ and _money laundering_. “I must assume you want my help.”

“We seek a bit more than that,” the old woman said equitably. Her voice was raspy, but firm and clear. She stepped closer to Esther, closer to the window and into to the light. “The Italian had his hold on this city for far too long. He thought that made him safe. He thought the people had become complacent, had, how you say? Rolled over,” her eyes went to the woodprint of Machiavelli behind Esther’s shoulder, “But war cannot be avoided forever.”

“It can only be held off, for someone else’s advantage,” Esther finished, and realized she was trying to impress the woman. She didn’t know why she wanted to impress her. “What is your name, madam, if you don’t mind my asking?”

The old woman turned her head to look out onto the street below. Her dress was well-made, but not flashy. Her cane was topped in silver, but without adornments. Her shadyl looked made from human hair, and therefore expensive. Her face looked like it had once been very beautiful, with dark eyes and dark hair and a proud bone structure. But the years had not been gentle. The dark eyes were like two angry bits of obsidian. There was a cruel slant to the mouth. “Rebecca Goldsmith. That was the name the men at the docks gave me, since they could not pronounce my real name.” She turned her cold eyes on Esther, wrinkled lips twisting into a smirk, “Not that we came with any gold, of course, or smithing. It was a joke, you see. A bunch of dirty Jews huddled together, not a piece of copper between them, and what do those Irish momzars call us? Goldsmiths. Get it? Because we’re Jews.”

Esther did not laugh.

Rebecca turned away from her, wry smile not leaving her face, “And now, I am very close to making the name real. With a little grease and a little help from an old friend.”

“An old friend?”

The woman turned from the window and looked at her with those heavy eyes, “You are Estera Dobranoc, daughter of Lilit and Yakob,” Rebecca shook her head, “How could one forget such a name? _Goodnight star._ Was that your mother or your father’s doing, I wonder?” she waved a hand, “Don’t look so surprised, Jews of a certain place all know one another.”

“You knew my parents?” Esther’s voice was small. She hated how small it sounded.

“Knew them? Not really, but they were my cousins. I tried to aid them in their lobby to return you to them, but alas,” Rebecca waived her hand around her, gesturing to the study. She must have seen the look in Esther’s eyes. “Oh, child, of course you would not have known. Come. Sit. Let us talk as old friends should.”

Esther was aware she was being corralled. She was slowly being plied with this knowledge. But at the same time, she found herself falling for it, clawing for it, desperate to know more. Her parents… had tried to find her? She sat almost dreamily in a plush chair next to Rebecca, who ran her hands over her own skirts, flattening them, “Your parents had sold you to Bronte, of course, to raise a little money for the trip to Blackwater. It was no big deal. The Italian explained to them that if they could pay him back in a set amount of months, he would return you, not a hair harmed.”

“They _pawned me?_ ” Esther felt like she’d been hit with a shovel. Or shot again.

Rebecca pointed a bony finger at her, “Now you listen, pisher _,_ your parents had no food for you. They had no food for themselves. They were about to be living on the streets. They heard about a man who dealt in children, not for sex, but for the English of this country who enjoy taking orphans in off the streets. That sort of thing. It’s quite lucrative, and please, do not pretend it is any worse than what those Catholics do to the young women who show up on _their_ doorstep. Another family had done the same thing. The child was fed and well looked-after, and returned, not a hair harmed, as they say.

“But when your parents went to pay, the Italian said that the price had been raised. He had grown to having you around the house. He did not trust them to take care of such a bright thing, he said, and so he had raised his price, commiserate with what he felt you were actually worth,” here, Rebecca cast a meaningful glance at Esther. It was as if she were assigning blame. “Far more than what they had originally paid. Unfortunately, my husband was still running the operation then, and we could not afford the ransom. Yakob, bless him, killed himself trying to reach you.”

“Killed himself?”

Rebecca waved his hand, “What else do you call that hair-brained scheme to find you? Fathers... Men... Feh. They are blinded by their need to protect, yes? Not so burdened as women with the need to survive. He was killed by another man, but when one is so careless with their own life, what do you call it?”

“By Bronte?” Esther felt her arms become heavy with adrenaline. He’d lied. He’d lied before, he’d lied about so much, but this was… this was so much _more._

“Only a year after they left you with him, I believe.”

Esther took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, trying to center the universe that had just been shaken like so much gelatin, “And my mother?”

“Died of a fever, some time ago. Lilit was… She was practical. She knew to leave you alone. She saw her child in the society column of Saint Denis’ newspapers, slowly making her way in the world.”

Esther snorted derisively.

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed, “You have never had to cradle a child crying from hunger. You are not permitted to judge.” The old woman shifted, “Besides. It wasn’t just the food you were now getting. You were being raised by the most powerful man in Saint Denis. You had _options,_ life was given to you on a platter, to make of what you will.”

“It wasn’t like that at all,” Esther said suddenly. Rebecca’s eyes flashed. “I was sculpted, trained like a horse, into this,” Esther gestured at herself, “This isn’t natural. This isn’t who I truly am. I was robbed of that by a psychopath who, apparently,” Esther laughed without humor, “killed my father.” Esther was reminded of the thoughts she first had when Jack was staying at the Bronte mansion. How greedy she’d been to protect him and raise him. It made her ill.

“Oh, child, do you think you would have survived as long as you did if this wasn’t what you were truly meant to do?”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

There was a beat, then Rebecca sighed heavily, “I guess we will not. But the creature you are now is what we have to work with.”

Esther understood. She was quiet for a few minutes, gathering her thoughts, compartmentalizing these new revelations. They didn’t change much, in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps she hated Bronte more. But how did that help her? How did that help Arthur?

In all this time, after all this news, Esther had not lost the main reason she had agreed to Walsh’s plan. “What do you want from me?” Esther asked finally, as if she had accepted Rebecca’s bargaining chip, and wasn’t about to ask for more.

“Help us establish ourselves in the city. Give us advice. Give us information. A little leadership, to show your old friends that you are serious.”

“And in exchange?”

“We offer you our protection. I offer you family. I have four strong sons, two of which are already married, but you will meet Simon and Luthor, I think you will like them. They make poor sons to their Jewish mother, but… eh, they are good men.”

Esther made a face, “I don’t need a husband, Mrs. Goldsmith.”

“Listen,” Rebecca held her hands up, as if already prepared for Esther to get defensive, “If I thought you were some ditzy girl chasing after boys, you would already be married now, yes? And I would not offer you my blood. Marriage is about more than romances and poetry… love songs… roses… feh.” The woman must surely have been attractive, once upon a time, but that pragmatic snarl of her mouth told Esther she’d always been practical to a fault, “You must recognize that. You are a sensible woman. So you must know that it also a weakness for you to be untethered as you are. You are an unknown quantity. And unknown quantities make for bad investments.”

“Are you saying you won’t take me on if I don’t marry one of your sons?” Esther narrowed her eyes.

Rebecca’s eyebrows shot up, as if she were scandalized at the idea, “Not at all. Marry my sons, another woman’s sons, a goose, it makes no difference to our business together. But as a woman, and as family, I must tell you it is a risk.”

Esther shifted, “I thank you for your concern, but as we are speaking frankly, I’ve no interest in marrying.”

Rebecca shrugged, as if there was no use talking to young people these days, “Then it is so. What do you say? Do we have an arrangement?”

Esther looked out the window and pursed her lips, as if thinking, as if she didn’t know exactly what she wanted to say already. “I have… previous obligations that complicate this arrangement.”

“Oh?” The old woman raised an eyebrow again.

Esther drew her hands into her lap, “When Bronte’s mansion collapsed, the gang that attacked the mansion took me in. I had a… working relationship with them, whereas Bronte didn’t. This gang is in a bit of trouble now.” She let the silence fill in the space, and stared at Goldsmith.

Rebecca sat back in her chair, appraising Esther. The younger woman could not see if that was surprise on the older woman’s face, or disappointment, or admiration, or frustration. Rebecca had a lifetime of hiding her thoughts, and Esther only had a fraction of it. “So? What do they need? Money? Muscle?”

“Clemency,” Esther said smoothly, “In Blackwater, and peace with the Pinkertons and Leviticus Cornwall.”

Rebecca cackled, her yellow teeth flashing behind her pale lips, looking genuinely gleeful, “My, what interesting friends you have, shikse _._ You are every inch Yakob’s daughter. He too had interesting friends. Anarchists, poets, communists-.”

“I’m sure,” Esther cut in, recognizing the ploy for what it was: A distraction. From what? She didn’t know. Would Rebecca turn her down? Or was she thinking it over?

Rebecca smiled at her, seemingly genuine for the first time, and shook her head, “I can work on Blackwater. We have the police in hand enough to make sure that heads turn the other way, if that is necessary. But, Pinkertons? Cornwall? As much as it pains me to admit, we are not Bronte, and we do not have his power. This is a great deal to ask, and not simply as a bargaining chip, but as a thing that could be done.”

Esther nodded, “Then work on Blackwater, and give me the resources I ask for when I have a plan for the Pinkertons and Cornwall.”

The old woman sighed, “I will consider it. But I will not blindly risk what I have built for you, girl, not when you are so unproven.”

“I can accept that.”

“So, you agree?”

Esther rolled around the decision in her mind. She didn’t have a lot of options, it seemed. “And if we find that this agreement doesn’t satisfy us?”

Rebecca leaned back, severe, “If you agree, I will grant you access to all of our most secret operations. All of our bookkeeping will be open to you, all of our secrets. This is no light burden, easy to shrug off.”

Esther understood. _If you stay, you stay for keeps._ She thought of how it felt to ride with Arthur, the freedom she felt on her jobs with him and the gang, the autonomy to choose her crimes and roll with them. That wouldn’t be an option, with these Goldsmiths. But if she rejected Rebecca, she would be powerless to help the gang, powerless to protect herself. She couldn’t rely on Fred’s kindness forever.

Slowly, she nodded.

“Excellent,” Rebecca stood, bracing herself against the cane to rise and rejecting Esther’s offered arm. “I will have one of my sons find a new apartment for you and staff that can be trusted. I like the boy, Walsh, but I do not want a daughter of mine living with an unwed goy. It isn’t decent.”

Esther walked the old woman downstairs to the front parlor, were Fred was looking uncomfortable under the gaze of a large man with dark hair, who was built like a steel driver, broad and solid. Esther recognized his face in Rebecca’s immediately. They had the same serious eyes and eyebrows, though the younger one’s eyes were amused at the moment, making Fred squirm.

“Luthor,” Rebecca said, a shade sharper than necessary, “Is the carriage still outside?”

His eyes snapped to Rebecca, immediately looking a bit sheepish, “It is, ma’am.” His eyes slid to Esther, appraising. What his prognosis was, Esther couldn’t tell. As he unfolded himself from the chair, she thought that he would not have looked out of place in the Van der Linde gang, shaped roughly like Charles or Arthur. Except, this man wore clothes finer than anything she’d ever seen the gang wear, even Dutch. And he wore them easily, as if the silk brocade of his vest or the cut of his jacket were not clearly custom. They had to be, for his size. How did such a small woman make such a large man? The biology of it was confusing.

“Good. Mr. Walsh, it was good of you to host us. I hope our business together will be prosperous for us both,” she clasped his hand, and turned to Esther. “I will send this shtarker with one more over tonight,” she gestured to Luthor, “There is a meeting to attend. Your presence would be beneficial.”

“I look forward to it,” Esther said, mind mulling over what on earth this meeting could possibly entail. Nothing upstanding, that was for sure. But she had to prove herself.

“I’m sure you do. Sholem, Estera, I will see you again soon.”

And with that, she left in a carriage pulled by two white horses. Walsh was still squirming. She waited until the carriage had disappeared around the street. Then, Esther whirled on him, “You got a snake in your shoe or what?”

Fred stammered, dragging his eyes away from the carriage, “What? I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine, what did he say?” Esther went back into the parlor and sat in a huff on the chair.

Fred blushed, following her in, “Nothing of importance, I assure you.”

“You know, his mother offered me his hand in marriage?”

Instead of protesting, he guffawed, “I bet she did.”

Esther threw a look at Fred that expressed exactly how weird and exasperating he was being. His face cracked into a smile full of secrets that she didn’t like one bit. Her eyes narrowed, taking in Fred’s faux-relaxed stance by the fireplace. He was up to something, she could smell it.

“Fred,” she growled.

“Let’s just say,” the grin didn’t leave his face, though his hand made a gesture of nonchalance, “That you’re not the partner he’s interested in.”

It took Esther only a moment, then she laughed, “Christ. You’re a whore, Fred.”

“I am a good friend, giving you house, home protection, in a time of need. I am wounded.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

…

Esther wore a dress that she hoped would fit in with the Goldsmith aesthetic. Walsh had insisted on getting her another one before that evening, and had selected something plain but expensive from a shop’s window. He even “invested” in a gold brooch, telling Esther that she must “look the part” if she wanted to succeed. Not that he needed to tell her that. But Esther thought it wouldn’t hurt for Fred to feel as if he was in charge, fluffing her up and moving the pieces. The new alliance seemed to inject new energy into him. He would not make for the mayoral seat right away, that would be too bold. But he would vie for a seat on the city council. If Esther’s gambit with the Goldsmiths worked, his ambitions for office were now on the express rail. And if she failed? Well, no one knew Fred had brought her back from the dead. He had little to lose.

Meanwhile, nerves had crept into her stomach. She missed Arthur. She missed Abigail. She missed the gang and its simple problems of where food was going to come from and where the next job would be. But, politics was what she was good at, and this was how she could help them.

When the carriage rolled up and Luthor unfolded himself from inside, it was after dark. Fred had been talking at her the entire evening, instructing her on how to act, what to say. Esther hadn’t taken it personally. She knew this was how Walsh expressed his own nerves. She understood how he felt.

Luthor knocked and stepped aside as she appeared at the door.

“Good luck,” Walsh stage-whispered to her.

“I don’t need luck,” Esther squared her shoulders, “I need patience. Mr. Goldsmith, will you tell me where you’re taking me?”

Luthor glanced around the empty street, “Inside the carriage, ma’am.”

Esther nodded and held her skirts in one hand as she went down the steps and up into the dark maw, half expecting to be grabbed and thrown back onto a seat. But she wasn’t. Nobody reached out to manhandle her. The interior was lined in velvet and hardwood, with dark curtains over the windows just in case the occupants wanted even more privacy. As it was, the only other passenger was a middle-aged man with serious eyes and severe cheekbones. Simon, perhaps? If Luthor wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Van der Linde gang, Simon wouldn’t have looked out of place in a grammar school.

Esther tucked her skirts under her and sat, Luthor following behind her. His weight made the springs on the carriage squeak. The stranger shut the door, and knocked on the window behind him for the driver to continue on to their destination.

“And you are?” Esther asked. She wasn’t afraid, per se, but she was keenly aware of how easily they could throw her body into the brine of the Lannahechee, never to be seen again.

“Simon Goldsmith.” Ah, so she was correct. “I manage our family’s largest accounts. You are Estera Dobranoc, yes?” There was no hint of feeling on his face, and his voice was cold.

“Esther,” she said, waving a hand, “I go with the name the men at the docks gave me. Will you tell me where you’re taking me now?”

Luthor had settled uncomfortably beside her. Even with such a large carriage, the feeling was cramped, “The mayor and some of his friends are having a little party. We’re going to crash it.”

“Oh, if I’d known it was a party, I would have worn my dancing shoes.”

“Not that kind of party,” Simon flicked an irritated glance over to his brother, not picking up on the joke, or perhaps refusing to.

“And how can I help?” Esther asked.

Simon looked at her with eyes that were exact replicas of his mother’s. They were hard and shiny, with the quality of coal that made the rest of his face seem abnormally pale. _Jesus, no wonder he’s never taken a bride._ He took out a notebook from inside his breast pocket and a pencil, and jotted down a note, “You will convince them to back us when we make moves on the Irish and the remaining Italians in the city.”

Esther sat a moment, “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“You were Bronte’s heir for more than twenty years. Surely you have some idea.”

Luthor was a bit more generous, “We think you should appeal to their sense of stability. Right now, no one’s getting their money because Bronte held such a monopoly on it…”

“…So I convince them that nothing’s going to change?” Esther nodded.

“Exactly,” Luthor grinned, his face several degrees warmer than his brother’s.

No wonder they had been so keen on her. She was a one-of-a-kind bargaining chip, now that Guido was dead. No one else was as close to Bronte. No one else understood how his business worked as well as she did.

“Do the Goldsmiths have a plan beyond this hostile takeover?”

Simon raised an eyebrow, “Do we need one, as long as these suits and the police are paid?”

Esther sighed, “I suppose not. But taking power and remaining in power are two very different games to play.”

“We could have bought the council and the police, ourselves,” Simon waved a hand, “That is of no concern. You are how we stay in the long-game. You offer what no one else can: A paycheck not just tomorrow, but next year, and the year after that. That is how we convince Saint Denis that this is not a coup but a transition of power, you taking up what people always thought you would: The Bronte criminal empire.”

“Bronte was going to have me killed,” Esther said quietly, thinking. There was no way he would have let her leave that house… Martelli certainly wouldn’t have. It was sheer, dumb luck she was sitting here now. That didn’t sit well with Esther. She didn’t like dumb luck.

Simon shrugged, as if what she had told him was of no consequence, “I didn’t know that. Why should others?”

Esther leaned back in her seat, thinking it over. It was a solid plan. By rights, it should work… But Simon and Luthor didn’t know about Esther’s ulterior motive, unless Rebecca had told them. “Did your mother speak to you about my conditions?”

“Madam Goldsmith told us about the Pinkertons and Cornwall.”

“Cornwall! I couldn’t believe it. How the fuck did your friends get themselves into so much trouble?” Luthor laughed.

“They’ve a talent,” Esther smiled, “But you should know I’ll be negotiating on their behalf as well.”

“It is what we expected,” Simon said tersely, though it was clear he didn’t approve, “Though you should know that Cornwall is dead.”

Esther blinked, “Dead?”

“Apparently the Van der Linde gang has already dealt with the problem for you,” Simon inclined his head, “As you say – they’ve a talent.”

“Shit,” Esther growled out loud. They couldn’t have done it quietly? What the hell happened? This reeked of Dutch, losing his goddamn mind again… Now the whole country would be after them. How the fuck was she going to get them smuggled to Blackwater now? “When did this happen?”

“Two days ago, it was all over the papers,” Luthor said, a note of confusion in his voice. “Thought you would know.”

“No, I didn’t.” Fred. Fred knew she was worried about her old gang. With her as his house guest, not leaving except to use the water closet, he could control what she knew. He didn’t want her going back to them now that they were in real trouble. She couldn’t forget how clever he was. She couldn’t forget. “Thank you for telling me.”

“We’re here,” Simon announced needlessly as the carriage halted. He was the first out, looking around at the mayor’s house while Luthor helped her out. “You may speak, but do not promise something we can’t afford. You’re playing with our money, now.”

The house looked empty. Esther remembered the last time she saw it, the party, her grand plan… It seemed like a thousand years ago. She nodded quickly, a dip of her chin. “As you say.”

Simon led the way inside the gates, nodding to the guards. Luthor walked beside her, which was strangely comforting. She was not on her own here. Simon may not approve of her, but the Goldsmiths needed her… They were on her team.

Unless this was a trap, to curry favor with the mayor… No, that would be too risky for people like them. Already, the paranoia was starting to wear on her.

“Monsieur Goldsmith,” The butler said with the same tone he might address a dead rat on the floor. He’d opened the door with the air of someone expecting something important, but now he stared at the most unwelcome surprise. Simon politely inclined his head in greeting. Luthor crossed his arms. The butler’s eyes slid to Esther, and widened, “Madam Dobranoc… You are alive.”

“And waiting,” she smiled, “Let us in to the house, Phillip.”

“Of course, of course, madam, I… of course,” he quickly ushered them in, glanced behind them to see what other minor miracles followed, and shut the door. “After what happened to Signor Bronte I… We thought…”

“Tell Lemieux we are deeply apologetic, but our invitation somehow got mixed up in the mail, and never arrived,” Esther said, straitening her back. The imperious tone of the princess of Saint Denis came back to her easily, like an old dress she’d forgotten she’d owned but still fit. “Be a dear.”

“Of course,” The butler choked out, and moved quickly, with stiff legs, across the foyer and into the atrium.

Simon watched him go, then turned and looked critically at Esther, then at Luthor, as if measuring them up for potential faults, checking over their clothes for imperfections.

Esther turned to Luthor, “Is he always like this?”

“Since we were kids,” Luthor rolled his eyes.

Simon snorted, tucking a frown into the corner of his mouth. A few minutes later, the butler came scurrying back. “Mister Lemieux has asked me to escort you up to the library-.”

“Oh? Is that where the dinner is happening?” Esther turned and brushed past him easily. She knew this house well enough. She could guess where they were actually eating. It would probably be in the parlor up the staircase on the right…

“Madam, please, I know this must be a shock for you-.”

Simon and Luthor followed wordlessly, moving around the flustered butler like water.

“I don’t want to have to call the guards, miss-.” The threat had barely left his mouth before Luthor swiveled and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think you’ll be calling for anyone, Mr. Butler. Come on,” Luthor man-handled the man under his arm, partially dragging him along, “Let’s go meet the party.”

The party were faces Esther recognized. The mayor, sure, but a few landlords, the train depot manager, the trolley station owner, the chief of police, a few businessmen and city councilmen and those who were both. They had not stationed guards outside the doors, and this was their first mistake. When she stepped into the room, chatter stopped at the long, well-lit table, their stunned faces turning from the roast and the port and gapping at her like fish.

“I tried to stop them Monsieur, they wouldn’t listen-.” The butler sputtered as Luthor turned him loose.

The mayor was on his feet, “Enough, Phillip, get back outside. Don’t let any more surprises in.” He muttered something under his breath. For some, the recognition was instant. For others, it took just a bit longer, then small gasps were heard around the table. It was very satisfying.

“Mayor,” Esther nodded. “I won’t keep you from your dinner, but I heard you were going to cut up my city.”

The mayor was not a violent man, but Esther knew he was capable of outsourcing violence. He blinked rapidly. The gears in his head were spinning. “Your city.”

“My city. How has managing the bribes and paying off your subordinates gone so far, hm? Sounds like you’re having a mite of trouble.” She went to the end of the table, where the chief of police sat, staring at her like she was a bit of mold he’d discovered on the underside of his pie, “And what about you, Mr. Thompson? Have you been placated by the Mayor’s promises?”

“What do you know of promises, girl?” His piggy eyes were watery and yellow. He reminded her of Micah.

“There’s always promises. That’s what makes the world go ‘round.”

“What do you want, Esther?” The mayor’s eyes hadn’t left her. No time for pleasantries. No, _Oh, you’re alive, let me call the papers, would you like to sit down?_

“We want a seat at the table. Myself and my new associates,” She held up a hand to the Goldsmiths, looking like specters of doom in their black clothing and eyes like bits of coal. “In exchange, I offer a return to balance.”

“Return to balance?” One of the businessmen scoffed. Steel trader, Esther remembered.

“Bronte nearly sucked this city dry,” Growled another. Tenement owner.

“Oh really? And how has business been going, now that no one’s paying off the mill inspectors, Mr. Rockwell? Now that crime is so bad in your little shantytown even your pathetic excuse for a roof over their heads can’t convince them to stay, Mr. Pickard?”

The mayor leaned over the table, “We’ve been doing just fine in your absence, Miss Dobranoc, whether you see that or not. Mr. Thompson just gave his men a raise. For the first time, police can afford to feed their families without taking bribes, and they owe that to Mr. Thompson.” He wasn’t going to let go of this power so easily, then.

Esther shook her head, “You don’t get it, do you? You’ll be out of a job in a year, Lemieux.”

“Money buys loyalty, Miss Dobranoc. Maybe Bronte did not teach you so well after all.” His eyes flicked over to her guests, taking the temperature, watching their faces, “I think you should leave.”

Esther threw back her head and laughed, “You haven’t bought their loyalty. You probably haven’t even bought their respect. The police _need_ to rely on those bribes, _that_ is what kept them loyal. Who can convince a well-paid man for a favor? No one. By shifting the power to those men, you’ve moved it from the rest of your cohort at the table.”

A few of the businessmen glanced at each other. They relied on policemen looking the other way to do some aspects of their trade. Sometimes, union leaders needed to be pushed out, or construction needed to move ahead despite faults, or supplies that perhaps wasn’t up to state standards needed to be bought… Would man who didn’t worry about putting food on the table still turn a blind eye to these things? It was possibly just now dawning on them that the bribes might not be accepted any more if they didn’t have to be. Sure, maybe the bribes would still work, just as they always had… But who liked relying on chance?

“My men deserve dignity,” The Chief of Police growled, “We should not have to accept bribes from some crooked woman just to keep our family’s fed.”

“Don’t pontificate at me, Thompson, I saw the riots last fall. Thirty-two men and women dead.” Esther tsked, “Seems your police force doesn’t much care for freedmen. Or for dignity. What was it, that started it?”

There was silence at the table.

“An officer stopped a freedman who’d been accused of stealing… Gosh, was it a hat?”

“Am I supposed to look after every officer under my watch?” the leader of a major armed force in the city growled.

“I lost a building,” one of the slumlords grumbled, “Insurance barely covered it.”

“And I nearly lost my seat,” frowned a councilman.

“Right. So the police are a well-armed mob unto themselves, and now they have no one to answer to. What else have you broken in my absence, Lemieux?” There was a very loud beat of silence while everyone at the table realized in the same instant that, actually, they didn’t _want_ to be in charge anymore.

“What do you suggest?” He suddenly snapped at her, face red.

“Just as I said. A return to balance.” Esther leaned forward on the table, “I clean up the mess you made. In return, you pay tribute to me, and my new friends. You keep quiet while I get rid of what’s left of the Italians. I’ll keep the cuts of all the bribes, the racketeering, the perks, whatever, the same as they were under Bronte. That simple.”

She could hear the men in the room thinking it over. The electrified mush in their skulls was slowly stirring to life, trying to play out the different scenarios.

“We don’t need you,” the police chief huffed suddenly, startling the man to his left. “I can protect this city enough.”

There was a round of uneasy grunts from the people at the table. Mr. Thompson wasn’t popular. And a military state didn’t sound as if it would suit Saint Denis.

“I don’t think that’s quite the solution we were hoping for, Madison,” Lemiux’s mouth did an unhappy quirk. He didn’t like where this was going.

“May I remind the distinguished gentlemen in the room,” Simon suddenly spoke up, the picture of a schoolmaster settling down the children from after recess, “That there is also the very real possibility of our friends from the capital paying us a visit if order isn’t restored, and soon. This city is making headlines in places Southerners such as yourselves don’t want to be making headlines.”

Esther caught Simon’s eye, but his expression didn’t change. Friends in the capital? The federal troops?

“Federal troops?” Someone asked, puzzling through it, “Why would they want Saint Denis?”

“Because her corpse makes for fine dining,” the mayor folded his arms, “I have already turned away _suggestions_ for assistance by private agencies.” Private agencies? The Pinkertons? Esther made sure her face was neutral, but inwardly she sighed. Of course they’d show up here as well. Lots of rich people looking to protect their little slice of paradise, why wouldn’t they?

“You didn’t tell me that,” the chief of police snapped.

“I wasn’t going to make a decision just yet,” the mayor returned, fingers flexing irritably. Esther understood. He had been under Bronte’s thumb for so long, and now it seemed siding with his successor was going to remain the best option. He certainly couldn’t handle things. Not even in Saint Denis could the mayor have a hand in a criminal operation the size of Bronte’s. It would be too much. The papers would have a field day.

And he couldn’t openly defy the men at the table, the men who funded his seat. At the end of the day, a mayor like him was easily replaceable.

“It sounds like we don’t have much of a choice,” One of the slumlords said, taking a sip of port. No one else had touched anything since Esther and the Goldsmiths had entered the room.

It became so quiet that Esther could hear the _clip clop_ of horses’ hooves on the paving stones outside.

…

As Esther and the brothers climbed back into their carriage, Luthor couldn’t help but flash her a little grin, “That was brilliant. You had them eating out of your hand in the end.”

“She made a good argument,” Simon said in a tone that was corrective, “And we were fortunate that the men inside had enough sense to see it.”

Esther pressed her lips together and sent him her most unimpressed look.

He didn’t react, but instead knocked on the window pane between himself and the driver, who set off at a lurch, “Do you expect your terms will be seen through?”

“Not all of them,” Esther said with a shrug, “I want the slumlords and a few of the councilmen gone as soon as we open new ledgers. And a new chief of police. Thompson is going to make a fuss. We’ll need someone loyal.”

Simon nodded as if this was the first sensible thing she’d said all evening, “I’ll draw up a list. I imagine your Mr. Walsh will want a say. And who would you like the councilmen to be replaced with?”

Esther waved her hand, “Why do they need to be replaced? The fewer people I need to worry about stabbing me in the back, the better. Split their spoils among the new council, show them we can be generous if they act right.”

Luthor was grinning, taking out a flask from his jacket and offering it to her.

“What’s this for?” but Esther took it and pulled. Bourbon. She coughed and handed it back.

“Mazel, you’re family now.” He took a pull as well and offered it to Simon, who abstained.

“Why, because I schemed you guys into power in Saint Denis?”

Luthor huffed a laugh, “You’ve been reading too many newspaper cartoons.”

Simon looked at her with the first ghost of a smile she’d seen all evening, “Because you’re surviving. That’s perhaps one of the greatest cultural marks of our people, your people. Despite all the efforts of our enemies, we survive.”

“And then we eat. I’m starving. Simon, can we stop someplace?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #  
> I think it got deleted, but ch 1 I commented out how Gallaecian Jews immigrated heavily to the US in the 1880s to escape famine and religious persecution in Eastern Europe and beyond. Usually merchants or money lenders by trade (which is a whole-ass story unto itself, but suffice to say that it was medieval Christian antisemitism that started it) they were key in frontier communities becoming successful towns and not just trading posts. Rockstar should include more narratives like this, imo.  
> #  
> I am not Jewish so if I fuck something up please tell me!  
> #  
> Shikse: Dumb non-Jewish broad.  
> Shtarker: tough guy/gangster.  
> #  
> Example of one of Luthor’s “cartoons”: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_antisemitism_in_the_United_States#/media/File:18960415_antisemitic_political_cartoon_in_Sound_Money.jpg  
> #  
> Most bourbon is kosher. https://www.crcweb.org/LiquorList.pdf


	19. A New Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Won't have time to pub tomorrow, so pubbing early!

Esther looked out over the heartlands. She’d never seen the open country like this. It had always been from the inside of a train, or a carriage, perhaps, when she was young. But like this, on the back of a horse on the edge of a butte, it seemed to stretch and roll beyond what her imagination could hold. She could see why the Van der Linde gang ran so long and hard from the law, trying to hold onto this. But damn if she didn’t wish they’d made themselves just a bit easier to find.

Cuez stomped his hoof impatiently, pawing at the dirt. “I know, kid,” she patted his neck thoughtfully, “I’m tired of looking too.” She knew that each passing day was putting them more and more at risk. The Goldsmiths were not bottomless in their patience either, though they had made a remarkable effort on her behalf.

Simon and Luthor followed her, along with a small contingent of men that were nimble enough to run across the country and smart enough not to ask questions. They lacked the coal black eyes and dark hair of the Goldsmiths, but they must have been Jews of some flavor or another. She didn’t think Rebecca would be terribly open to any goy in her gang.

Luthor had taken the opportunity to walk around and feed his dark bay Andalusian, a horse that was a mite too small for him but seemed to adore her master. Simon sat sour-faced on a black Arabian that seemed to match his temperament. The filly snorted haughtily at Cuez, which the larger horse hadn’t taken much offense to. Cuez was generally mild-tempered, and ignored the grouchy horse.

In the passing days, Esther had adopted the color scheme of her new gang. Black on dark grey, a splash of indulgent gold or silver when the occasion called for it. They seemed obsessed with fulfilling the stereotype of rich, dark villains. Considering their origins, perhaps that was the goal.

“No word from Ambarino,” Simon called.

“Then that leaves Roanoke,” Esther nudged Cuez over, “Though I admit, I don’t know that bit of country very well.”

“No one who has a chance to do otherwise does,” Simon muttered, “But I have a source up by that way. We’ll stop in, see if they’ve heard anything.”

She saw Luthor glance at his brother, eyes thinking. She filed that away.

Esther said, “I appreciate this. What your family is doing for me.”

“Don’t worry,” Simon weighed her with a glance, sizing up her worth, “We don’t do anything for free. And we collect on our debts, in time.”

Esther nodded. She hadn’t forgotten Rebecca’s words.

They rode hard across the open plains, black shirts turning paler with the yellow dust, up into green fields and rolling hills, which seemed to grow more ancient and dark by the mile. The cool, clean smell of the heartlands gave way to the musty, dank smell of rotten leaves and old growth and an environment that even man’s presence couldn’t quite tame.

“Do you have many of these sources?” Esther asked, Cuez trotting beside Simon and his Arabian. He glanced up to her and gave a brief nod.

“We have contacts all over this area of the country. They are friendly to us, at least.”

“Very friendly,” Luthor piped up, and Simon’s jaw muscles worked.

Esther watched but didn’t make a comment. She had been watching this weird little family very closely. It was hard to tell how the game was played with them. At one turn, they were loving; touching and hugging and laughing – apart from Simon. On another turn, they were ice cold and hungry for what was owed to them. That was extremely interesting. This source didn’t seem exactly a stranger, and certainly not a stranger to Simon.

Her confusion grew as they guided their horses over rickety bridges that seemed held together by moss and ivy. She almost didn’t see the buildings at first. Their sides were so darkened by lichen and mold they blended into the trees. It was the people she saw first, who seemed to creep unnervingly out of nowhere. And then she saw the homes, if they could be called that. Some shacks had roofs caving in. Men and women had hard, mistrusting faces. A man with a grotesque neck deformity plucked at a banjo on a porch. Esther was no stranger to the underbelly of human life, but this place made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She felt out of place on her expensive horse and rich gown with the gold broach and a hair net with glass jewels set in it. It seemed like the other shtarkers did as well. They flowed into single-file without direction from Simon, who led them up the hill.

“Hey.” The voice made Esther jump. The hard-faced man who’d shouted at them had a glint in his eyes that Esther didn’t like one bit. “Whatchu folks wont? Y’all ain’t from ‘round here, and we don’t take kind to strangers.”

Simon glanced at him. If he was unnerved by the man’s growing hostility, or the attention he was bringing to their already ostentatious party, he didn’t show it. “We’re consulting the granny witch. We’ll be gone before nightfall.”

“Watchu wont with her?” The man persisted, “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.”

Simon raised a hand for them to halt, “Just need to talk to her.”

“Granny witch?” Esther whispered to Luthor, ahead of her, who shrugged without looking at her. He was busy scanning the people around them, whose dirty faces were turning one by one toward them, hand itching to go to his holster.

The man’s skepticism didn’t seem to shift, and now a woman stopped beside him, dead bird in her hands, its wings arching towards the ground and blood dripping onto the grass. She muttered something to the man, then looked at their party, “I don’t need to tell y’all to show respect to her, do I?”

Simon inclined his head, “No ma’am.”

 _Granny witch?_ Esther blinked. Witches weren’t real. Sure, she’d heard some weird stories, especially for those real wild places up in Ambarino, but that’s all they were… stories. Yet this place prickled her. Something was unnatural here. She didn’t know what it was but she didn’t trust it. Whoever this old witch was, she must have been a real piece of work to have that kind of reputation among these people.

The woman jerked her chin down and continued on her way, looking tired and filthy and underfed, to a shack where two tired, filthy, and underfed kids sat listlessly on the porch. She shouted at them and they scampered off.

Simon led them on, so Esther kept moving. These kids reminded her too much of the street kids of Saint Denis for comfort.

They wound their way farther into the trees, and the prickly feeling on the back of her neck grew. She checked that her gun was loaded and ready to fire if she needed it. Something about these people reminded her of the nightfolk. She didn’t trust the air here. How on earth had Simon won a contact _here_?

A small shack built on the side of a hill came into view. Like the others, it was covered in moss and lichen, and its chimney was made of crooked blackened stone. Someone was rocking in a chair on the small porch, focusing on something in their lap. A scruffy, elderly dog lay on the porch, asleep.

As Esther got closer, she saw that it was a young woman. An apprentice? Her face was just as serious as everyone else’s in the community, though markedly cleaner. She wore her bright red hair in two long braids over each shoulder, her plain grey dress – matronly and at least ten years out of fashion – doing nothing to tone down her freckles, haughty up-turned nose, or bright green eyes that flicked towards them. She was pretty, and Esther’s age. How did she wind up here?

The woman stood, setting the little thing she was working on aside. It looked like a bundle of sticks.

“Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you ‘round here again so soon, Danny boy.” Her voice didn’t sound like a young woman’s, and threw Esther for a loop. It was rough and deep, like a woman twice her size and three times her age. Her eyes gave away nothing.

Luthor snorted. Esther’s eyes flicked between Simon and the woman. _Nooo._

“We’re looking for someone, and we need help,” Simon’s voice wasn’t… _apologetic._ Not exactly. But it was the closest that Esther had ever heard his voice approaching the tone. It was a shade regretful.

The woman raised an eyebrow, and slid those piercing green eyes to Luthor, “Mr. Goldsmith. Pleasure to meet you again.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Miss Praise,” Luthor touched the brim of his hat while his Andalusian pawed the ground.

Her eyes went to Esther and the half-dozen men behind them, measuring them up, taking them in, missing nothing.

“Well. I s’pose you better come in. I just made some tea.” Her jaw was set and anything but friendly, despite having just invited them into her home. Luthor gestured that Esther should dismount, so she did, and followed the brothers up onto the porch.

“Your dog sleeps very soundly,” she commented by way of introducing herself.

Miss Praise glanced over her shoulder at Esther, then at the dog, “Oh. He’s dead.” As if commenting on the weather.

“Oh,” Esther blinked, and looked at the dog again. She noticed now its chest did not rise and fall. Flies buzzed around its eyes, but it didn’t not shake them off.

“Why on God’s green earth do you have a dead dog on your porch, Effie?” Luthor asked what Esther was dying to, but felt impolite to do so. The inside of her home was small but tidy, the stove freshly scrubbed and not even bits of leaf between the boards beneath her feet. A rag rug of many colors was laid in front of a narrow bed pressed against the far wall, which was covered in the most elaborate quilt Esther had ever seen. It must have taken years to make. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but held back.

“Baldwins are building a house south of the river. They’re pickin’ it up this evening.”

“Oh, of course,” Luthor growled when Miss Praise didn’t expand beyond that. He was at as much of a loss as Esther, apparently.

She poured brown liquid from a kettle into three fired clay mugs, and set them on the small kitchen table in the middle.

“I’m Effie Praise, the granny witch in these parts,” She dipped her head at Esther. “What deal with the devil did these boys make you sign?”

“Esther Dobranoc, just joined up,” Esther tucked her skirts under her as she sat, aware she was out of place and needed to tread lightly, “I needed a bit of help, and the Goldsmiths needed mine, that’s all.” She almost coughed, “God, this is good, what is this?” It was sweet, and must have had a ton of sugar in it, but the notes underneath were like nothing Esther had ever had before.

“Bitterroot tea,” Effie said easily, without much emotion. She didn’t like giving anything away, did she? “Good for a sour stomach. Good for cramps. Y’all look like you’ve ridden hard, and a long ways.”

“That we have,” Luthor shook his head, “Had a hell of a time finding these folks of Esther’s.”

Effie looked at Esther again, pinning her with that strange green gaze, “Is this why you signed on?”

“Not… Exactly,” Esther shrugged, glancing at Luthor and Simon. Luthor nodded at her, encouraging her to go on. Simon was watching Effie, not even pay attention to Esther. “They’re in a bit of trouble. I want to help them, with the Goldsmith’s resources.”

“How much trouble?” It was a good question.

“Have you heard of the Van der Linde gang?”

Effie finally raised an eyebrow and sat back in her chair, “I see why you signed on with these folks then. That’s real tough, sister. That’s real tough.”

“We were thinking that they might be around here, holed up, and you might have some leads,” Esther had assumed as much. Why else would they be visiting a witch? Was she going to cast bones and tell them which direction the gang had fled?

“Oh sure, I have an idea,” Effie smirked without much humor, sitting back in the chair, “Murfee Brood boys have been terrorizin’ Butchers Creek more’n usual these past few days. One of ‘em tried to fight his way through my door.”

“What?” Simon’s eyebrows snapped together.

Effie shrugged, “Didn’t make it very far.”

“Erm, I’m sorry to hear that. But what does this have to do with the Van der Linde’s?” Luthor asked, eyes moving between his brother and Effie.

Effie sighed, as if exasperated she had to spell it out for their thick skulls. She smacked her lips, then started, “Coupla weeks ago, some kids found a carpenter bee nest out in the garden. Didn’t want the little shits ruinin’ the squash, so they poured kerosene down the hole and dropped a match in. Lit the bees on fire, killed the nest alright, but the bees just tried to find a new hidin’ place. Nearly burnt down old Temperance’s home as they flew into little crooks and crannies, digging. We were finding dead bees all over the place. In cupboards and drawers. Thankfully it wasn’t any worse than that.” She nodded, as if that should explain it all. For a moment, there was silence.

“You think the Murfees are displaced, and trying to find someplace else to hole up?” Esther asked.

Effie sent her a wry smile, “They’re too weak to take back Beaver Hollow. Must be. So they come ‘round here, terrorizin’ folks, tryin’ to find a place to land.”

Esther nodded, and stood, “You’ve been extremely helpful Miss Praise.”

“Please, friends call me Effusive, decent friends call me Effie.”

Esther blinked, “Effusive?”

“Ma was a real one for words,” she shrugged. The Goldsmiths also rose, though Simon lagged behind as Luthor and Esther stepped outside and mounted up again. She glanced behind them, and saw Simon with his head bent towards the young woman, speaking quietly. _So that wasn’t in my head._ He looked at her with the softest eyes Esther had ever seen on the harsh, cold man, face turned like a sunflower straining towards the light.

If Luthor had found himself craving after partners that Rebecca didn’t approve of, perhaps so had Simon. She had heard that some from the old country still didn’t approve of the intermarriage of Jews and Christians, so it wouldn’t be hard to imagine Rebecca souring at the thought of Simon marrying… whatever Effie was.

“Huh,” Esther said, and swung a leg over Cuez’s back.

“What?” Luthor asked, doing the same.

“Nothing… You and your brother just… don’t seem to like making it easy for yourselves.”

Luthor grinned, face full of mirth, and looked back at his brother talking to the granny witch, “Why else you think our mother tried to pawn us off on you?”

“You know about that?”

“I assumed. She tries to set us up with every unmarried Jewish woman between the ages of eighteen and forty.”

“I don’t even observe?” Esther laughed.

Luthor shook his head, still smiling, “That doesn’t matter. When has love ever had to do with family?”

Simon was walking towards them, shaking his head and looking thunderous. Effie stood on the porch with her hands on her hips, face giving away nothing. She raised a hand as the shtarkers turned around and rode away, and Esther watched it drop as they rounded the bend and out of sight.

***

_Dear Tacitus,_

_It’s been too long, cousin. I heard of the trouble you had in Annesberg. Sounds awfully messy, a bit like our last meeting, except I wasn’t there._

_I’ve made some new friends since we last spoke, who might be able to help, if you permitted them. Let’s parley. Meet us at Brandywine Drop at your earliest convenience. A will know the place._

_Esther_

***

They set up a base in Annesberg, per Simon’s instructions. The coal town stank, the smell of tree sap and nauseous smoke catching in the back of their throats. A haze lingered over the tin roofs, sometimes mist, sometimes smog. The people here had a worn look about them, as if they had been scrubbed of all they had left.

They rented all the rooms over the gunsmith, drawing a few looks but nothing said as a group of well-dressed men from the city and a woman moved upstairs. They were quiet and didn’t cause any trouble, and that seemed the most they could hope for out of tenants.

Simon bought a paper and read it, looking for mentions of the Van der Linde gang, “Did you post the letter?”

“I did,” Esther said from her place on a narrow bed. She was working on a few quilting pieces she’d packed away from Fred’s. After Lakay, Esther had decided to keep up the skill as a way to keep her hands busy when there was nothing to do. And it seemed like a useful thing to know. And it helped the guise of innocent female traveler. And… It reminded her of the gang. The quilt pieces she was using was a bit of kerchief that Tilly had given her, and she was slowly piecing them together into a common-enough pattern that would mean she could ask another woman for help if needed.

Simon grunted.

“He means thank you,” Luthor said from where he lay on his own narrow bed, which hardly seemed to contain him. His black wool stalker hat covered his face while his arms were behind his head, at ease.

“I know what he meant,” Esther teased. “Your brother struggles with verbal communication. It’s perfectly alright,” she pressed the needle through the thimble, “Though I must wonder, how a woman like Effie could… entertain someone so reticent. She’s certainly not quiet.”

She could feel Simon’s cold stare on her, but did not react. Luthor propped his hat up and glanced at his brother, “She’s got a point. How _did_ you meet Effie?”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with what we’re doing here,” Simon huffed. He stood quickly, “They haven’t managed to make it into the paper just yet. C’mon. Let’s go camping.”

They left the rest of their gang in Annesberg, and it was once again just Esther, Luthor, and Simon riding over the hills to Brandywine Drop. She remembered the last time she visited that place, meeting Charles and Lenny for the first time, riding to catch a train with Arthur. It felt like a million years ago. Everything did. This was her life now. What would Arthur make of it?

Simon told them not to make a fire. He didn’t want night-blindness to give Van der Linde an edge, if the bandits decided to attack them in the night.

“They probably haven’t even gotten the letter yet,” Esther groused over cold canned fruit.

“Then let’s not attract the attention of Murfees,” Simon groused, not budging an inch.

Luthor sent her an apologetic glance, and shifted from where he was sitting, “How long did you know these outlaws, Esther?”

Esther shrugged, “Little more than a month, I suppose.”

“You only knew these folks a month? And you’re putting so much on this?” Luthor’s tone wasn’t judgmental, but it was surprised.

Esther quirked up one side of her mouth in a half-smile, “Even geniuses can make mistakes, Luthor.”

“Now that’s an interesting question,” Simon turned from where he’d been moodily staring out over the river, the falls a dull roar below them, “How did you come to know these outlaws?”

Esther stuck a bit of fruit in her mouth while she mulled over an answer, “I needed some help with business. They were happy to give it, so long as they were paid.”

“Were they?” Simon asked, tone innocent for once, which immediately put Esther on her guard.

“Yep,” she popped the ‘p’ at the end.

“And they just… let you ride with them for two and a half weeks?”

Luthor watched his brother warily, but he glanced at Esther with naked curiosity. It radiated off of them both.

“I’m useful. They were happy to have another conman, and when the gang supposedly died in a shipwreck-.”

“Wait wait wait, there was a shipwreck?” Luthor stared, the whites of his eyes visible in the dark.

“They tried to rob the bank of Saint Denis, and-.”

“They tried to rob the bank of Saint Denis?!” Luthor laughed, as incredulous as Esther had been.

“I know,” she said, in a tone that conveyed _I told them it was a dumb idea_ and _Now you understand why a shipwreck was involved._

Simon just grunted, in a way that could mean many things. Esther was suddenly exhausted. She liked Simon and Luthor. They were nice to work with. But talking about the gang out loud… She missed Arthur. She’d made a deal with these folks that meant she couldn’t just run off with him, but she did miss him. Her metal fork scraped the side of the tin can.

“Sounds like you’ve been through a lot with these folks,” Luthor’s eyes were on his can of beans.

Esther was quiet, then figured they were going to figure out something sooner or later. But that didn’t mean she needed to make it easy for them, “Something like that,” and she tossed her empty can aside, “I’m turning in. Wake me when it’s my turn for watch.”

Simon tipped his hat and Luthor waved. As Esther lay down on her cot, she couldn’t help but be tossed back to the cot in Ambarino, sleeping with the wound on her arm, too tired to take her boots off. When did that become a source of nostalgia? Maybe when she lost Bronte, maybe when she lost Arthur. Maybe when she lost the ability to just go out on a job that was _simple._ She covered her face with her hat and tried to relax over the sound of the falls a constant drone under the bugs and frogs and creatures in the night, and her two compatriots sharing meaningful looks.

Much to Esther’s surprise, Dutch met them the next day.

“Esther,” Luthor called, which brought her out of her stress-sewing and made her look up just as he appeared around the corner from the road. He came riding up on that pale Arabian, followed by Javier and Micah. No one’s face seemed happy to see her.

She put it aside and took a breath. Time to be the big mean Saint-Denistan. She made sure her pistol was loaded and then walked over to where Simon and Luthor were already standing, side-by-side. They didn’t always look like brothers, but there was no mistaking the set of their shoulders, the angle of their heads. They looked formidable, with Simon as a grim reaper and Luthor as a merciless thug. What did that make Esther? A mean bitch, she supposed. The woman in the opera that seduces the hero, to steal him away. She saw how they looked in the hardening of Dutch’s eyes. He was already casting them in their roles.

“Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Esquella,” Javier nodded, “Mr. Bell,” Micah spit. Esther looked at all three of them, and gestured, “How nice it is for you to drop by.”

Dutch rolled his shoulders, “Your letter was very persuasive. Rather, it was very persuasive to certain members of my family. But, you’ll notice, Miss Dobranoc, Mr. Morgan is not _here_.”

Before Esther could move past that remark, Micah smiled, “He’s been mighty occupied, you see.”

She saw it. She saw the bait, dangling in the air, begging to be snatched up. She could see how that conversation would play out. _Occupied how?_ And Micah would smile that sleazy smile and he’d say something that would make Esther’s gut clench in worry. So she brushed it off, “I’m glad he’s making himself useful. Now, Mr. Van der Linde-.”

“Why, just yesterday, he went and broke John out of Sisika, with Mrs. Adler,” Micah wasn’t letting her off that easy, and she had to admit – that did make her gut twist with nerves. “You wouldn’t have had some hand in that, would you?”

She smiled, not at him, but at Dutch, “Why does he need my help to do such a thing? Do you have so little faith in him, Dutch?”

“I don’t know, not since you’ve gotten your hooks in ‘em,” Dutch growled, and Javier glanced at the gang leader.

“I had nothing to do with Lakay,” Esther reiterated, since that was what they came here to talk about, apparently. _Cowboys and their gangs,_ she thought, disgusted, _no head for business. Everything is about honor and glory._ “And I certainly wasn’t there when Cornwall got his head blown off. Seems you all have managed to sow a little chaos all by yourselves, don’t need me to help you along.”

Dutch’s frown deepened.

“But I can give you a chance to escape. For a price.” She felt Luthor shift beside her. A price hadn’t been a part of the plan. But Esther had come to the realization that Dutch was never going to accept free help from her. It was too far outside her character in his little narrative. But he might accept a trade.

“And that would be?” He asked, finally participating in the conversation.

“The whole gang knows you keep a stash hidden away. Maybe saving for a rainy day? This is that rainy day, Dutch.”

While Dutch’s face soured, Micah’s became _hungry,_ “How much?”

Esther tsked, “So crass, to talk about money amongst friends. How about we talk about what I can do for you, and you tell me what a fair price would be?” _And then I’ll double it,_ Esther said with her eyes never leaving his.

Dutch looked at Simon and Luthor beside her, “And your new friends want a cut as well, I presume?”

“Oh, where are my manners? This is Luthor and Simon Goldsmith. They’re from an outfit out of Blackwater looking to make a little investment.”

“And why not just… cut out the middle-man?” Micah asked, eyeing her, “We can deal with ‘em direct.” Of course Dutch would want a direct line to resources, and of course Micah would be blunt enough to say that to her face.

Simon, of all people, spoke up, “We’re only interested in investing in something worthwhile, Mr. Bell. My brother and I are here as a favor to Miss Dobranoc.” Micah’s face puckered, and Esther mentally hugged her spindly business partner. Was this what running with a gang of your own felt like? It felt nice.

“And the money isn’t part of that investment?” Dutch’s brow furrowed.

“We need capital, Mr. Van der Linde, just like any other business. Whether we take it off your hands alive or tear apart your camp at Beaver Hollow after you’re all dead is totally, and completely, up to you,” Simon held up and ripped the words in slow, searing tears and let them drift to the forest floor.

The Van der Linde gang flinched.

“But I’ve told them that would be difficult,” Esther said, “And I have friends I’d rather not get caught in the crossfire. Besides, why ruin any future opportunities for business?”

“You should know I don’t respond to threats very well, Miss Dobranoc,” Dutch growled, eyes on Simon.

“It’s not a threat,” Simon said smoothly, “I’m simply laying out the options before you.”

“I didn’t come here to start a fight, I came here to end one,” Esther cut him off, “You know as well as I do that your gang needs all the help it can get right now. This is what I’m offering. Resources, an exit plan, for the cash.” Esther’s pulse was suddenly pounding in her ears.

“And if I refuse you’ll storm into camp and kill us all?” Dutch’s eyes were narrow slits.

“No,” Esther breathed, “Like I said. I’m not interested in seeing you dead. And, really, I don’t want to have to go looking for it.”

He shifted in his saddle, face like a house with the shutters closed and lights out. He didn’t trust her. But Hosea was dead. Maybe she could draw him out with the same temptation that drove him to deal with the Grays and the Braithwaites, to shoot Cornwall in broad daylight, that orneriness that she knew Arthur himself had in him. The need to stir up a little chaos. She offered that.

“No,” Dutch said finally, and Esther’s heart plummeted, “I think you’ve made your loyalties very clear, Miss Dobranoc. I’m afraid I don’t trust you or your new friends to keep my family safe.”

 _You can’t even keep your family safe, you fool_ , Esther thought ruefully.

“Boss,” Javier said gently, “You’re not even going to hear what her plan is?”

“We don’t need her plan,” Micah needled, “We already got a plan. Right Dutch?”

Dutch grunted, and turned his horse’s head around, “I better not get any more letters,” he shouted over his shoulder, riding off in a thunder of hooves back around the corner and down the hill. Javier and Micah followed, Javier throwing an unreadable glance back at them before disappearing after them.

“Shit,” Esther needed to tear something in two. She was furious, “That stupid man is going to kill them all.” She started to pace. She needed to think.

“You never told us about the money,” Luthor said, a voice that wasn’t chastising, but wasn’t innocent of blame either.

Esther stopped, shoulders hunched, “Yeah, Dutch has got a huge stash somewhere that he keeps around. I overheard Hosea, their old leader, talking about it once.”

Luthor folded his arms, “Would have been nice to know about it, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Esther sighed, “I didn’t plan on bringing it up. But I knew he wouldn’t accept free help. Maybe he would have paid us for it. That was the thought, anyway.”

Simon was quiet, hands on his belt, thinking, “You want to pack up and go home?”

Esther bit her lip. She didn’t. She didn’t want to leave, but she also knew she was asking more than she could afford to ask of the Goldsmiths.

Simon shook his head, “No, I can see you still have more scheming to do. C’mon, Luthor, let’s get back to town so I can take a bath before our next camping trip.”

An invisible weight was gently removed from her shoulders. She nodded and walked over to her bedroll.

Once they were packed and on their way to Annesberg, Simon some twenty feet ahead of them, Luthor drifted over to her. “So is Mr. Morgan a friend of yours?”

Esther looked over, studying his face. He gave away nothing. “Yes. He’s one of the people in camp I want to offer an escape route to.”

“Why doesn’t he just… leave? Does Van der Linde hunt down those who cross him, like a good-old-fashioned outlaw?”

She shook her head, eyes between Cuez’s ears, “No, not like that. But there’s people in the gang he can’t leave behind. There’s a family, and some women, and friends. They have no money of their own, and no way to make their way in the world except by thieving. That’s why I need your help. If you can give them a place to land in Blackwater, away from the Pinkertons, I can buy them a place to lay low for a spell and we can figure out what to do next.”

“Sounds like you got it all figured out,” Luthor said dryly.

She looked at him sharply, to see if he was being sarcastic. It didn’t appear so. “I just… Dutch complicates things. He’s dangerous. If he feels like I’m trying to steal the gang from him, he might… I don’t know.”

“Right,” Luthor muttered, “Seemed like a real swell guy. I can see why they follow him.”

“I don’t think he was always like that. I think something changed in the past few months. They’ve been running into more trouble than usual, and it’s made him paranoid.”

Luthor just grunted, “Takes something like paranoia to turn away help, especially with what they’re facing. We could probably turn them all in and make a profit off of this trip.” At Esther’s look, he held up his hands, “Hypothetically speaking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #  
> Granny witch is a relatively new term, but the practice has existed in Appalachia for hundreds of years. https://www.learnreligions.com/appalachian-folk-magic-4779929  
> #  
> The dead dog on the porch is a reference to a “white magic” tradition practiced throughout central Europe into the early 20th century of burying a dog at the foot of the front door to ward off evil spirits. Couldn’t find a link online to this that wasn’t a scholarly article behind a paywall. Read Behringer.  
> #  
> Effusive Praise is a direct rip-off of the old-timey tradition of giving your children absolutely batshit names. Learned Hand is perhaps the most famous, a judge that codified much modern American free-speech laws. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Learned_Hand  
> #  
> I invented her as a way to counter-act Rockstar’s again-shitty stereotyping. Appalachia is a deeply misunderstood part of the country. Effie represents a little bit of nuance.  
> #  
> Dutch Apologists, this is not the fic for you

**Author's Note:**

> I attempt to update every other week.  
> *  
> 


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